


The SWAT au no one asked for

by pleasebekidding



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: M/M, SEAL!Ric, but also a happy ending because i love those, cop!Damon, eh there's gonna be a lot of pain i should tell you right now, problematic sexual harassment in the workplace, there will be background mcdanno so deal with me, this is the SWAT au no one asked for, very charming tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-28 18:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 75,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15055307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasebekidding/pseuds/pleasebekidding
Summary: “Areyouex-military?” Alaric asked. “Is this supposed to goad me into asking what branch?”“Do I look the part?”“You look like an underwear model in a bulletproof vest.”––Alaric is an ex-Navy SEAL heading up a SWAT unit in Atlanta when he meets Damon. Be warned; lots of pain ahead, but I promise I'll be true to archive warnings.Also this needs an actual title, but so far, I have nothing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've binge-watched 6 seasons of Hawaii Five-O and fallen in love with McDanno, which inevitably led to ridiculous unbetaed SWAT au fic with Dalaric, because obviously it did. Almost all I know about this shit is what I glean, no doubt incorrectly, from television, though I've done research along the way where possible. I still need SWAT units to operate the way I need them to for the purposes of story.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who encouraged me to keep going with this; you may regret it when I rip your hearts out later. :D

“You’re ex-military.”

Alaric shook his head, and glanced at his new, hopefully temporary partner. Too schmick. He was wearing expensive shoes. Alaric turned back to the security feed.

“Don’t speculate about me.” He switched views. Still nothing. Where was that _fucking_ truck.

“I’m not speculating. I’m observing. It’s a cop thing. Probably doesn’t come as naturally to you ex-military types.”

Baiting. Alaric sighed. How many hours was he going to be stuck in this van? He leaned closer, squinting at the shadows in the back of the warehouse, but any movement there was the product of an overactive imagination, or desperate hope.

“Marine? SEAL? Ranger? Oh, come on, admit it. Jocks are hot. Military Police? Provost Marshall’s Office? No, not military police, I’m way off now. I’m thinking Marines.”

Alaric took a deep, calming breath.

“Bit of a renegade, or you’d still have a military haircut and you’d be shaving your scruff. Not that I’m knocking your life choices, here. I like the scruff. The hair? Well, I know a guy who could help you.”

“Oh, my god.”

“It’s not _bad_ or anything.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“I,” Damon started, a little dramatically, crossing his arms (he looked much too relaxed. If he wasn’t ready to go when Alaric called it, Alaric was just going to shoot him), “am a seeker of knowledge. When I have enough knowledge to keep my brain busy for a few minutes, I’m quiet as a mouse.”

“Yeah? Show me what that’s like.”

Damon snorted. “Oh, I like you.” He was quiet, for a minute, two. Alaric flicked between security views, and scrubbed his hand over his face. It had been way too long since his he’d finished thermos of coffee, and without a bathroom break in sight, he was better off not drinking any more anyway.

“Is it true 90% of guys drop out of SEAL training in the first week?” Damon asked, entirely sanguine. “How many deployments have you had?”

“Are _you_ ex-military?” Alaric asked. “Is this supposed to goad me into asking what branch?”

“Do I look the part?”

“You look like an underwear model in a bulletproof vest.”

“Aw, you called me cute. No, no military for me, not a fan of camo. I prefer the tac gear. Tell me the truth, do these cargos make my ass look awesome?” Alaric felt his teeth grind together. It had really, really better be temporary, or Salvatore was going to drive him into the arms of a bottle Jack Daniels every night.

“I don’t have enough information,” Damon said, at last, clicking his fingers. “Once I’ve seen you shoot, then I’ll know.”

“Know what?”

“Whether you’re more the ‘shock and awe’ type, or I can imagine you disabling a submarine.”

“And you?”

“Me what?”

Alaric felt every cell in his body tense, ready for action. He pointed at the screen, and Damon’s body language shifted completely. The truck they’d been waiting for was pulling in. They only had a few seconds’ grace.

“Can you shoot?”

“I guess you’re about to find out.”

“Move in,” Alaric said, over comms, and a half-second later, he and Damon were sprinting for the back door of the warehouse, nice and low, six more guys behind them, and moments after that, bursting through the open roller door. No time to announce themselves. Bad guys with guns, six instead of the expected four, all coming out shooting. Two of Alaric’s guys took bullets to the chest in the first six seconds, and something you didn’t always see on TV was how much that fucking hurt, even through a bulletproof vest.

Turned out Damon _could_ shoot. Shot one guy through the ulna, effectively forcing him to drop his gun, another through the throat, so much fucking blood. It was a bloodbath, which was unfortunate, but not unexpected. Damon played his part well, while Alaric laid down covering fire. And the whole thing was over in about three minutes. Maybe five.

Two arrested, currently lying face first on the filthy floor and yelling about unfair treatment, needing help here, get a fucking paramedic, _that asshole shot my hand off_.

Four dead.

Alaric squeezed Damon’s shoulder. An acknowledgment that he’d underestimated him. Could do worse for a partner, not that this was anything but a temporary thing. Just a couple of days until Peterson was back on his feet.

And Damon winked at him about as suggestively as it was possible to wink, dressed in tactical gear.

“Alright. Give this place a once-over and then we’ll get forensics in here,” Alaric said, with a nod. Well-trained team. “Just the basics. Try not to touch anything.”

They fanned out, looking to the obvious; a pile of crates in one corner, old and wet and dirty. Two guys on the van, which looked empty (hard to know if that was a good thing or a bad thing). Damon approached what looked like a tool cabinet, against the wall, while Alaric had a quick look over the blueprints on the table. Too dark. He pulled a pen out of his pocket took a step sideways and leaned across the desk, to turn on a lamp without touching it.

The click was almost too quiet, but he felt it through his foot, as well, eyes closing as he realized what he’d done. He glanced at the floor, the patch of dirt he hadn’t even noticed, like a fucking idiot; these guys were better organized than he’d assumed, and probably, they weren’t anything like the top of the pecking order, here, just a bunch of redshirts sent in as a decoy.

“Fuck,” came Damon’s snarling voice, taking a step back from the open cabinet. “We have to get the bomb squad in here.”

Alaric was suddenly deeply grateful that he couldn’t see inside that cabinet.

“Everybody out,” he said. “Retrace existing footsteps and get the block evacuated. We need the bomb squad in here,” he said, over comms.

“Everyone clear?” Liv Parker. No nonsense.

“I’m standing on a detonator,” Alaric said, calmly.

“Well, that was stupid.” Usually not a whole lot of empathy, either. Alaric liked her, though.

He sighed. “What’s the ETA on the bomb squad?” It took until then to realize that Damon hadn’t moved. His eyes darted to Damon’s feet, but he was safe. No reason to stay where he was. “Salvatore. Get out.”

Damon stuck his tongue out, and took a step closer, crouching to examine the plate Alaric was standing on.

“It’s not good. Maybe forty minutes. They’re responding to a bomb scare in downtown Atlanta. Starting to think it might be a decoy, but…” But, huge target, thousands of people there at this time on a Friday night. The evacuation would take time.

“They’ll send a detachment. Hang in there. Saltzman?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re gonna get you out of there.” The crackle of static stopped.

Of course they would. Alaric took a few centering breaths, eyes closed, and when he opened them, Damon Salvatore was still standing there.

“I gave you an order.”

“And I’m flagrantly ignoring it. You gonna try to chase me out, Saltzman? Because that won’t go well. Anywhoooo, now I’ve seen you in action, I’m thinking Special Forces. Although I think your CO would be pissed you made such a rookie mistake. What was his name, again?”

Alaric breathed again. “If you think you’ll wear me down — now — you’re delusional. Get the fuck out of here, Salvatore, I’m not joking. This thing might be on a timer.”

“It’s not, and you know it’s not. And I’m not leaving. Leave no man behind, etc.”

“The underwear model’s credo?”

“You know it, handsome. You see me shoot the gun out of that guy’s hand?”

Alaric nodded. “Nice shooting.”

“I was aiming for his shoulder. Joke! Joke, it was nice shooting. I’m not leaving,” he said again. “I’m really not, so.” Relaxed and calm as a cat, enough so Alaric wanted to step off the detonator and wring his neck for the sixteenth of a second it would take them both to die.

He crossed his arms and held Alaric’s gaze.

“How did you end up in SWAT?” Alaric asked, partly out of genuine curiosity, partly to be mean. “About one in a hundred cops know their shit and still don’t seem like cops. _Maybe_ one in a hundred. You should be with ATF or Vice, undercover somewhere, living it up with that silver tongue of yours.”

“Infiltrating the seedy underbelly of men’s intimate fashion.”

“I wish I’d said wristwatches.”

“Well, you didn’t. It’s fine, I don’t mind you imagining me in my underwear,” Damon said, with what had to be his trademark smirk and another of those winks. And sure, other circumstances, meeting in a bar, Alaric would probably take him home and fuck his brains out. Probably be a really good night, too. But these were not other circumstances.

“New guy sexually harassing you, boss?” Liv asked.

“Yes,” Damon said, loud enough to be heard. “But it’s not working, any tips?”

“Shut up, Damon. Can you guys send someone in to get him?”

“I’ll ask around, see if there’s any volunteers.”

Damon snorted. Apparently unconcerned.

Alaric had a sheen of sweat over his face, trickling down the back of his neck. He had an itch on the back of his leg that was getting difficult to ignore. But he was trained for this. He stared at the filthy ground, the blood spatter in the dirt, and he focused on breathing.

“Twenty-six minutes, Lieutenant. The bomb scare at the mall was a bust, whole squad’s on the way. You hanging in there?”

Alaric felt dizzy. “Hanging in. Going silent for a minute, I want to make a couple of calls.”

There was a long silence over comms. “Alright. Five minutes. Over.”

Damon pulled himself to full height, which had to be a touch over five feet — fine, five nine, whatever — and crossed his arms.

“No fucking way. You’re not calling your people with some stupid goodbye. You’re not going anywhere. _Anywhere_. In twenty-eight minutes you and I are walking out of here and we’re heading straight to a bar, and we’re getting shit-faced, and if I play my cards right, you’ll have my legs hooked over your shoulders by midnight.”

“Stop trying to make me laugh,” Alaric said, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “And please, would you just leave? I have a really bad feeling about this.”

His hands were shaking, as he unzipped his pocket to reach for his phone.

“Hey. Hey, hey hey, don’t talk like that,” Damon said, stepping closer. “Just breathe. Breathe with me, Mr. Green Beret. You wanna hear my sob story? You’ll love it. Guess why I became a cop.”

“Part-time job as a stripper in college and you loved the uniform,” Alaric deadpanned, but for now, at least, he left his phone in his pocket. He couldn’t call people and say goodbye. He couldn’t do that to them. Listen to his voice one last time when it was shaking like this? Fuck, no. He wiped sweat from his forehead, and swallowed, hard.

“Bingo! Close enough, anyway, daddy issues. Organized crime family, are you impressed?”

Alaric raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“Dad in jail, thanks to the baby bro who’s chilling somewhere in witsec, enjoying his immunity deal and probably working construction. It wasn’t that noble, don’t look at me like that. He was a well-connected weak link and the feds made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

Alaric’s leg ached. He needed to move. Purely psychological, but that didn’t make it any less true.

“So you’ve got something to prove.”

“Mostly that I can kick ass and look like an underwear model at the same time. Breathe, Alaric. And tell no one. I don’t exactly splash that stuff around, you know? Lucky for me, I don’t look like my dad or my brother, so no one ever makes the connection.”

Alaric nodded.

“SEAL,” he said. “And I don’t talk about it.”

“Bet you’re pretty in white,” Damon said. He slipped his hand into Alaric’s, and Alaric gripped it tight, just as comms came back online. Idiot. He should have left.

“Hanging in there? First guys are coming to outfit you for the occasion. Nice padded rubber dress, should look nice over the vest.” Liv sounded stressed. It wasn’t helping Alaric’s cortisol levels.

“Tell them to bring two,” Damon said.

“For fuck’s sake, Salvatore. Once they get here, you’re out. As in, non-negotiable, I will have you dragged out in handcuffs.”

“That sounds risky. I don’t think you’ll do it. Kerfuffle like that? Nope.” He popped the P as obnoxiously as he could manage, which was, on balance, pretty fucking obnoxiously. Alaric shook his head, and squeezed Damon’s hand again, before letting it slip from his grasp.

Interminable minutes later, he was being fitted out in a rubber apron by a bunch of guys who looked like camouflaged Michelin men. Two lay on the ground, digging around the edges of the detonator plate, and all that Alaric could see was Damon’s eyes, through the protective glasses. Both pairs, his own, and Damon’s. Damon’s eyes were the most beautiful blue.

Damon nodded, and Alaric nodded back, as the bomb squad shifted their attention to the cabinet. He was exhausted. Counting breaths. _One, two. Three, four. One, two. Three, four_. They exposed the wires running beneath the desk, and Damon stood steady as a rock, eyes on Alaric, keeping him steady.

“Clear,” came an unfamiliar voice. “Lieutenant?”

“How sure are you?”

“We’re the bomb squad. We don’t do unsure. You can move.”

“Take the blueprints,” he said, gesturing at the desk, and one of the guys collected the paper clumsily with thickly-gloved hands.

Alaric hesitated, sweated, flexed his fists in his gloves. “Everyone out,” he said. “I’m serious. Everyone out and then I’ll move. And I mean everyone,” he repeated, looking directly at Damon. “Or I’m not moving a muscle.”

Looks were exchanged, and two of the bomb guys grabbed Damon by the arms, literally dragging him out. Alaric counted down from thirty.

“Clear, boss. Come on. You can do it,” Liv said, over comms, sounding exasperated and exhausted.

Alaric took a step.

The first second seemed to take an eternity. Listening to the plate click back, an echo that seemed to fill the warehouse. He took stock of all the evidence that would be destroyed if the cabinet blew up, and took him with it, and closed his eyes, wondering if he’d feel it.

And nothing.

The relief almost brought Alaric to his knees. He was exhausted. He heard a spattering of applause over comms, and staggered to the door of the warehouse, to be greeted moments later by the forensics team, the bomb guys ready to dismantle the cabinet, and Damon Salvatore, who slipped under his arm and dragged him in the direction of the paramedics who were on standby.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“I want your heart checked out.”

“You know stress is part of the job, right?”

“Yeah, but you were imagining me in my underwear,” Damon whispered obnoxiously, as the paramedics helped Alaric out of the apron. Another infuriating wink and he was all business again, swaggering back to the van to collect his things.

 

* * *

 

 

“Thought you were a goner, chief.” Matt Donovan slapped Alaric’s shoulder as he raised his glass.

“Thanks for your faith,” Alaric replied, tossing down a shot of bourbon.

“No problems, boss. If you get yourself blown up, who gets promoted?”

“None of you little punks.” They were a damn good crew, but you had to be careful about encouraging them too much, letting them get cocky. Donovan was a natural leader. He was young, but not too green, with just enough crazy and reckless mixed in for Alaric to think he’d do an excellent job, one day.

Alaric was exhausted, but a little morale building never went astray. No one was working the following day, thank fuck, emergencies notwithstanding, which was good, because he planned to spend the rest of the night in the tub easing the lactic acid and terror from his muscles and viciously beating himself for having been so stupid, contemplating the number of casualties there would have been if he’d screwed up any worse. Sounded time-consuming.

Maybe it was time to do something about the insomnia. He wasn’t getting sloppy, exactly, but he wasn’t at the top of his game, either. Distracted. He put the glass down and pulled himself to his feet.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” asked Jeremy Gilbert, arms outstretched. “If you leave, we have to leave or look like a bunch of drunks.”

“No, no. You guys did good work today, you earned it. I got a little paperwork to do before I can turn in. Who wants to be the boss, again? No takers?”

He nodded to the table. “Thanks for having my back,” he said, as the team became subdued. One last squeeze to Damon’s shoulder and he offered his other hand to shake. “Hope we get a chance to work together again,” he said, and decided last minute not to suggest Damon drop the sexual harassment, because A), it was way too charming to object to, and B), Damon would have enjoyed being chastised way too much.

He lifted his duffel from under his chair and slung it over his shoulder. Cop bar. Well, not only. _Emergency services bar_ didn’t have the same ring to it, though. Easier to relax in a place where everyone sort of got it.

He was partway down the street, debating the wisdom of attempting to walk home this late, versus the likelihood of finding a taxi, when Alaric heard footsteps behind him, and turned.

“No one told you, did they,” Damon said, slipping his hands into his pockets. He’d changed into a simple blazer that looked like it had been made for him, over a pair of jeans cut far too well. Not that Alaric was paying attention, in his gym shirt and old, worn sweatpants.

“Your partner,” Damon said, with a shrug.

“What about my partner?” This was bullshit; the new guy should not be telling Alaric anything about Peterson.

“Couple of months leave and then he’s transferring to the academy,” Damon said.

Alaric took a breath and rubbed his eyes. “And you’re telling me this why?” He perched on the back of a park bench.

“Well, since he says he already talked to you, I’m assuming he’s feeling kinda chickenshit and abdicating responsibility, here. So when they introduced me this morning as your new partner —”

“Right.”

“You know he’s two years off retirement.”

“Right.” Alaric felt his shoulders sag.

“Can’t blame him.”

No, Alaric couldn’t, but he would have liked to hear it from Peterson. “I’ll go and see him tomorrow.”

Damon propped himself against the back of the bench alongside Alaric and looked out across the street.

“So, you think we can work together?”

Yeah. Yeah, they could, they had the chemistry. Damon moved like a cat, and Alaric liked it. He was a little new, and they’d take a while to find a rhythm, but they could find it. Damon could shoot. He’d already shown more loyalty than sense, and idiotic as that was, Alaric valued it.

“You’re gonna need to work on following orders,” he said.

“I can’t guarantee that.”

“You’re not helping your case, here.”

“So what do you object to — me hitting on you, or refusing to leave when you were about to get yourself blown up?” Damon waggled his eyebrows, arms crossed over his body, lip twisted into a smirk.

“Both,” Alaric said.

“Because I did what you told me to the rest of the time. See, I can be good.”

“So that was, what, three minutes out of this entire day? Not much of a hit rate.”

“You know I’m charming.”

Yeah, he was charming. “I’ll see you Monday,” Alaric said, and headed off down the street.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All action, all the time. Plus 'platonic' snuggling. Alaric is doomed, lbr. Also, the next chapter is written but messy, so it shouldn't be long.  
> Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to continue this.

Full kevlar, huge kits, blazing hot Atlanta sun; and Alaric screaming commands as the entire team ran sprints, strapped to the eyeballs and miserable. Damon rolled his eyes, and rolled his messed-up shoulder, and tagged in as Matt Donovan tagged out.

“You wanna make it interesting?” someone shouted, and Alaric looked up with a grin, before he cast a sideways look at Damon.

“No,” Damon said, though everything else on his face was saying _yes_.

“Take one for the team, pal,” Alaric said, lifting Damon and throwing him across his shoulders, while a couple of the others followed suit. It looked like a pointless challenge from the outside, but they all knew, getting someone out of dodge while injured was pretty fundamental to everyone surviving these operations. But there was a good amount of showboating, as well. And Damon seemed to be enjoying staying wrapped around Alaric’s body like a spider monkey. He was heavier than he looked.

“Wait,” Alaric said, stopping dead and easing Damon off his shoulders, and adjusting his earpiece. “Guys — we’ve got a bank robbery in progress downtown. Rolling out in three minutes, let’s go.”

He ignored the collective groans, and they were short-lived, anyway.

 

“Don’t make that face,” Alaric said, hauling a rifle from the truck, pushing it into Damon’s hands. “You’re the best sniper on the team other than me and I need to stay down here.”

“I wasn’t making a face.”

“You were making a goddamn face. Third floor, okay, and let me know when you’ve got that board room in sight. I need a sitrep in two minutes. Go. Go,” he said, barely making eye contact before he slapped Damon’s shoulder. Damon rolled his eyes again, and summoned the accompanying uniforms to follow.

He handed a second rifle to Liv and pointed to the building diagonally opposite. “Third floor. Two minutes. Go,” he said, and she was crossing the street followed by two uniformed officers in another moment.

“Has HRT got this guy on the phone or what?” Alaric asked the Captain.

“They lost him. This thing’s out of control. These guys —”

“Not exactly professionals. Makes them unpredictable. I know.” A lot more dangerous. They’d been barking conflicting demands, making threats. At least two of the hostages being held in the second floor board room were injured or worse, and one customer downstairs had been shot in the back trying to escape. He’d died en route to hospital, before SWAT had even arrived. This was already looking like it could take a while. Too many hostages, and the leader inside — if leader was an accurate term — was getting more irrational by the minute.

“I’ve got visual,” came Damon’s voice, over comms. “I can’t count the hostages. Parker?”

“Looks like eleven,” she said. “But my view is partly obscured. Three bad guys with guns. One of them isn’t paying attention. The other two look like they know what they’re doing.”

“Shit.” It was Damon’s voice. “Someone — it might be the bank manager, older guy, just stood up — he’s trying to talk to them. Temperature is rising. All three of them have guns on the hostages. Advise.”

Shit. Idiot. Anyone up there had training, they should all be following the script. Stay down, stay put, let the police do their jobs, but sometimes someone just had to be a hero.

“Have you got a shot, Damon?”

“Yes I do. On the taller guy with the black baseball cap. Liv?”

“Not yet, but… okay, now I do. Boss, he has a gun to the manager’s forehead.”

“Wait,” Alaric said. “Anyone else, do we have a contact in the board room?”

“All the phones were collected up,” Matt says.

“Is there a landline in there?”

A few moments later, Alaric had a phone in his hand, waiting for someone to pick up. “Come on. Come on…”

From up above there was a burst of gunfire, and then the unmistakeable sounds of two sniper rifles.

“I had to take it,” Damon said. “The guy turned around and started shooting at the phone.”

Liv chimed in. “Two men down, one on the ground, I can’t see him. He didn’t seem the altruistic type. Probably just —”

“We have a situation — one of the hostages took a gun. Well, that’s three men down.”

“Alright,” Alaric said, after swearing under his breath. “Okay, good job. Come down and reset. We still have a bank full of customers.”

He took the bullhorn. “Guys, now’s a good time to call it quits. At least two of your buddies are dead. This is not going your way. In five minutes, we’re coming in there with tear gas and a whole lot of bullets, and it’s in your best interests if you stop that from happening right now. What do you say?”

The phone rang.

“I say I want a helicopter,” the man’s voice said. He was so distressed his voice had jumped an octave.

“No can do, pal. Nowhere to land, even if I was in a position to negotiate. But if you come out now, I’ll make sure they take it into account that you did the right thing, in the end. It’s not too late. You’ve still got a shot of getting out of jail before retirement age.” Well, probably not. Someone had died; all surviving gunmen would be charged with murder, since it had happened during the committing of a felony. “Come on. What do you say?”

The phone went dead again.

“Alright, I want unis on the back entrance, ready to go on my mark. You three —” he pointed. “On the front door, low and to the left. You three, other side. Damon, Liv… if they come out with hostages, I’m trusting you to make the call. If you have a shot, take it.”

Alaric felt Damon brush against him as he crouched by the car. He checked the time. Two minutes and change.

The door pushed open, and three automatic weapons were tossed outside, followed by three guys with their hands up. Alaric needed to make no further instruction; the first team took them down, cuffed, while he barked at the second to get upstairs and see what was happening. Paramedics got into position, waiting.

Alaric checked the time. Might have been a record. He breathed out at last, and leaned into Damon’s finger as it brushed over his hip. Fuck, he was in so much trouble there.

“I love listening to you boss people around,” Damon said, handing back the rifle and taking his sidepiece out. He was in the door, followed by Liv, before Alaric could even reply.

 

 

It was just one of those weeks.

Alaric woke early on Friday morning to be told his entire team was being loaned out to support the smaller North Carolina SWAT to dismantle an arms sale, and before eight in the morning, his team of twelve was on a plane to Charlotte, mainlining coffee and studying the blueprints for a factory outside of town that had been empty — or so they thought — for over 15 years. It was going to be near impossible moving in without being noticed. Alaric rolled his bad shoulder, leaning over the satellite photograph, looking for anything — anywhere — they could stay unnoticed for a long, tedious wait.

Alaric felt strong, slender fingers dig into the meat around the shoulder, massaging the tension out of the muscle, and it was all he could do not to sigh audibly. Damon leaned over the blueprints, but he didn’t seem to be paying any actual attention, just using the excuse to get in close. He pressed against Alaric and drove his thumbs into the space around his shoulder. A few people glanced up, first at Alaric, and then at Damon, but no one said a word. In a way that was more worrying than the ribbing. They worked well as partners, but anyone would have to be blind not to see there was something else building there, even if Alaric was doing his best to resist it. Frankly, his best wasn’t cutting it.

“We’ll have to walk in,” he said. “Walk in, stay low, and wait. Do we have an ETA on the buyer?”

The police liaison knew the case inside out. “Charlotte PD has a man on the inside. Deep undercover, been on these guys for over a year. He says it’ll be after nightfall, but everyone’s kept on a need to know, so — could be well after midnight, could be eight o’clock, we just won’t know until we know.”

Night vision, then.

“We’ve already got eyes on the road, though, and we’ll have about thirteen minutes’ warning. Which should be enough time to let everyone get inside, start loading the trucks, and then for the SWAT teams to move in.”

“Have we got heat detection on the factory?”

“Negative. The place is a fortress. Too much steel, too much concrete. We know there are guys on the perimeter, but inside, we’ve got nothing. Lieutenant, you need to know — best we can tell, these guys are all ex-military contractors. Made their connections overseas and now they’re using their extensive training to make a buck. They know how to shoot and they won’t hesitate to kill.”

Alaric shifted his weight. This was a mess. Those guys… they weren’t the same as regular military. He’d worked alongside them only rarely, and was glad it hadn’t been more frequent, because too many of them — not all, but too many of them — seemed to really, really enjoy their jobs. More disciplinary problems, less psychological vetting. More bullies, less protectors.

Damon’s fingers shifted to the base of Alaric’s neck, and kept working.

“And what about the weapons, do we know what we’re talking about? I’m mainly concerned about anything that might blow up if we’re not careful enough,” he said, shifting his neck slightly to give Damon better access. Appropriate or not, the man knew what to do with his hands, and Alaric was stiff as a board. Might as well let him do something about it.

“Explosives are unlikely. Unmarked handguns marked for disposal across the northwest, RPGs, rifles. We’re talking volume, here. Not quality.”

Alaric stood straight, and Damon dropped his hand, leaning over the table. “And who do they sell to?” Damon asked.

“Volume. So, middlemen. Militia. Terrorist organizations. They just don’t care. Nothing small scale, though.”

Damon tapped the map. “Looks like abandoned containers. Decent cover if we have to wait a while. How dense are these trees?” he asked the liaison, pointing to a spot on the other side of the factory.

“Not dense enough. There’s scrub. Your guys all set to lie low for a few hours?”

Some of the guys groaned, but it was good-natured groaning; this was the job, and they were all good at it.

“Alright,” Alaric said, turning on his heel. “So we’re walking in. Strapped to the hilt, guys. No way this is going down without a whole lot of shots fired. Once we’re made, cover your partners. Maintain situational awareness at all times. Suppressive fire until we’ve got control and we can move in. Damon and I will be in that door first.” He felt Damon’s entire frame tighten. “Don’t forget we’re aiming for arrests, here, as many as we can.”

“And we’re extracting our guy,” the liaison said. He held up a photograph. “He’s been down a long time, and it’s time we sent him home to his family.” They passed the photograph around, noting height and weight. Big guy. Alaric nodded. They’d make a show of arresting him, but sure, they could pull him out.

“Okay, seats. We’re starting our descent,” Alaric said, and they all fell silent.

 

It was after one in the morning, after a long day of completely mind-numbing surveillance and protein bars, when they were finally told the trucks had started to move off the highway.

“About fucking time,” Damon grumbled, shifting from lying down to a crouch. “This should be fun,” he said, but there was no mirth in it.

“We’ll be okay,” Alaric said. “I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

“You make me all tingly when you talk like that. Don’t get yourself shot, SEALman. I don’t want to wait around for a couple of months while you’re in physical therapy, you hear me?”

Alaric turned his head, but Damon had an entirely sanguine expression. Butter wouldn’t melt between his thighs, etc. But there was an edge to his tone.

It was impossible not to wonder, that was the problem. Impossible not to imagine having met him in a bar, or at the gym, if Damon was… fuck, Alaric didn’t even know, couldn’t imagine him as anything but a cop. Sexual tension tended to get itself resolved, between reasonable adults.

Damon never bothered to hide the hunger in his eyes. Alaric hoped he himself was less transparent, or this was going to end messy. Damon pressed his hand to Alaric’s thigh and gave a squeeze.

“I’m serious. Don’t get dead,” he said, face a spooky green through Alaric’s night vision goggles. He couldn’t see Damon’s eyes, but he could feel the way Damon was looking at his mouth.

“Move out,” Liv called, over comms; she was halfway up a tree, camouflaged to the hilt, holding a sniper rifle and watching for movement.

“Roll out,” Alaric echoed.

Silently, from various vantage points around the perimeter of the factory, Atlanta and Charlotte SWAT began moving in. The closer they could get before there was any shooting, the better.

“Matt, Tyler — take the tires out as soon as our cover is blown.”

“Copy,” Matt said, his voice quiet and graveled.

It was almost starting to look like they might take out the first couple of guards without shots fired, but of course, that was a stupid fantasy. Two men came out the front door with guns already raised, and started shooting.

“Go, go, go,” Alaric called, crouching, not pausing as he lay down fire. Impossible to know if the two men were dead, but they were down, at least, along with one of the guards.

“Police!” he called, standing again, laying down suppressive fire to let Damon get closer, and cover him. From inside the factory, more men were emerging, but those with a little more brains in their heads were using the edge of the doorway for cover.

“Man down, man down,” Liv was calling. “Gilbert. Someone get him cover.”

Behind him, Alaric heard Damon swear, and bolt away, still firing, grabbing Jeremy by the jacket and dragging him behind the wheel of the truck.

“Can you put pressure on it?” he snarled.

“Yeah,” Jeremy said. “Go, go…”

This was fucked; no matter how well armed they were, these guys were here with enough firepower to start a civil war, and the only way they were going to get out of here was by taking down as many as they could. Damon got to his feet and started shooting again, letting Alaric get closer.

“Jeremy, are you alright?” Alaric called.

“Shoulder’s fucked,” Jeremy said. “Took a bullet in the vest so ribs too, probably.”

“Your sister will kill me if I don’t get you home, so hold tight, buddy,” Alaric called back.

A couple more sprints and Alaric and Damon were in the door, Matt and Tyler behind them. Alaric felt a bullet hit his jacket, whirling him around, making him swear and grit his teeth, but he regained equilibrium quickly, pushing forward. Against the wall, one man was sitting with his hands up, weapon in front of him, relief on his face. The asset. Alaric gave him a nod, and kept moving, and somewhere behind him he briefly glimpsed one of the Charlotte guys cuff him and lead him away.

So there was that taken care of.

The relief was short-lived, though, when an RPG ripped through the corridor, leaving dust and ash, fire. Alaric pulled Damon to his feet, trying not to think about the gash across his face, focusing on the fact that Damon could stand. And that he wasn’t holding his head, but his rifle.

“Are you alright?”

“No, I’m pissed,” Damon said, pushing ahead. “Come on, let’s end this.”

It was the work of another ten minutes, at least, to push through to the warehouse. Pausing every few yards to get some more cover and further deplete their ammunition. Alaric wasn’t even sure who they still had, but there were eight on this side, at least four on the other; he hoped some of the guys in the rear had made arrests, and that there were ambulances on standby at the entrance off the highway. He couldn’t think about Jeremy. Not yet.

By now there was no further point in giving orders. This was a shootout. Hopefully, some of the guys would survive, because the connections they had were likely to result in a lot of arrests; but in that moment, Alaric only wanted it all to be over, no matter the number of casualties, as long as those casualties were on the other side. He’d heard the words ‘man down’ too many times in too short a time frame, and had no idea if everyone was still breathing.

The shooting was down to one corner of the room, which was a good sign, though Alaric knew there could be a couple of guys playing possum, waiting for a better shot. He shuffled to the other side of the room, their makeshift barricade of crates he hoped weren’t going to explode, and got down low.

One shot, to the collarbone rather than the lung, he hoped. His aim was true.

“Cease fire,” he called, and the room quieted down instantly.

Holding a handgun high, he crossed the room, feeling rather than seeing Damon follow behind.

A sudden burst of gunfire, and a single shot from Damon.

“Got him,” Damon said.

Alaric was barely aware he had his hands all over his partner in the next moment. “Are you —”

“I’m fine, SEALman,” Damon said. “Just enjoying the foreplay. Not hit! But if you want a little near-death smooching —”

Alaric slung an arm around his shoulder, and closed his eyes for half a second.

“Liv, are the ambulances on their way?”

“Yeah, and I called for a heli extraction as well. Just to be on the safe side. Charlotte General is standing by, and the ME is on her way as well. You secure?”

Alaric crouched to zip tie one of their suspects… suspects. Fucking hell, it was ridiculous to call them that. “Yeah, getting there,” he said, watching as a parade of guys in tac uniforms dragging some of their new buddies out. “Three dead in here. All our guys make it?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Four wounded, three badly. Two of our guys, two of the Charlotte guys. But everyone’s breathing. Come on out.”

Alaric spoke briefly to Jeremy before he was taken away, promising to get word to his sister in the morning, and to call. Two of his guys were down. He didn’t like it, but at least they were alive. He could beat himself up later.

 

 

There was a hotel down the road from Charlotte PD headquarters, and by five in the morning, the remaining ten guys in Alaric’s unit were distributed across six rooms, and on their way to sleeping soundly. There was a lot of debriefing to do, time to figure out who shot who, all of that official crap, but Alaric would sleep easily. Every kill had been a righteous one.

Damon followed him into a double room with a smile on his face that suggested he’d just consumed a large amount of cream, and he gave Alaric a wink.

“I think I’ve seen this movie,” he purred, sitting on a small dining chair to unlace his boots. “First I promise we can share the bed and you threaten me with bodily harm if I get handsy. Then we wake up in a few hours with you plastered to my back, and I pretend I’m still asleep for a while.” He tossed one boot aside and started on the other, while Alaric followed suit. “Then we have sex — accidentally, we tell ourselves — followed by a couple of weeks of awkward not-dating. Then, it’s wedding bells!”

He finished with a flourish, before tossing the second boot away and gingerly pulling off his long-sleeved t-shirt. Two massive, deep red bruises decorated his chest.

“Jesus,” Alaric said, quietly. “You feeling okay?”

“Taking the rest of the week off,” Damon said, stripping to his boxers and heading to the shower.

“It’s Saturday,” Alaric said.

“Then I’m not coming in Monday. Or Tuesday. Wednesday’s doubtful.” Moments later, Alaric heard the shower start to run. He stretched out on the bed, wondering if he had the energy to follow suit. He really needed a shower, probably stunk. He wasn’t in the frame of mind to talk Damon into taking the pull-out couch, or feeling masochistic enough to bear Damon’s moment of hurt at the suggestion before he shrugged it off. But if they were going to share, for the sake of being a decent friend and a decent boss, he really needed a shower.

It was the last thing he thought as he drifted off.

When he woke an hour later, Damon was stretched out alongside him, mostly under the blanket, one arm stretched out over the cover and those deceptive shoulders on display. Alaric let himself imagine, for a moment, what it would be like to just reach across and wake him, take Damon in his arms and give him exactly what he wanted. It was difficult to imagine it would be anything but a memorable night… or, more accurately, morning.

Alaric took his time in the shower, carefully massaging some life back into his exhausted muscles, skewing gingerly around his own scrapes and bruises. He’d taken two to the vest himself, and they hurt like hell. They all needed a few days to recover. Hopefully none of the bad guys would pick up on that particular chatter.

He checked his phone. No messages. As soon as he had the energy, Alaric would get to the hospital, check on Jeremy and Pete. The surgeries had gone fine; that was all he needed to know, really, though the doctor had hinted heavily that Jeremy’s recovery wouldn’t be fast.

In an ancient pair of sweats, Alaric came back to the room, and slipped beneath the covers, careful to maintain a distance between his body and Damon’s.

“I don’t have cooties,” Damon said, picking up his head. “You’re the size of a tank, you’ll fall off the mattress sleeping that far away.”

Alaric shifted slightly closer to the middle, and resettled his head on the pillow, closing his eyes.

Damon rolled over and scooted closer.

“I don’t have the energy to fend you off,” Alaric said, rubbing his eyes. “Please, Damon, just go to sleep.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” he said, pulling Alaric’s arm and fussing until Alaric was spooning him neatly from behind. “Come on. Don’t pretend it’s not nice.”

Yeah, it was nice. Alaric wrapped his arm around Damon’s body, and rested his head against Damon’s shoulder.

He was so, so fucked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A barbecue at Alaric's house for the extended family is really just an opportunity for Damon to get into his personal space and refuse to leave.

“Someone grab me one of the big plates,” Alaric called. “Sausages are done.”

Damon peered over the grill. “Yes, very done. You know charred sausages are carcinogenic, right?”

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

“You never ask for my opinion. Doesn’t mean you don’t know you’re going to get it. Seriously, they’re burnt.”

“They’re not burned. Would you get me that platter now, or they will be.”

Damon yanked the platter out of Matt Donovan’s hands and smiled beatifically. “Your wish is my command. Can I get you a beer while I’m at it?”

“You can give me some elbow room,” he said, and Damon stepped back about an inch and a half. Honestly… Alaric didn’t mind. He was used to Damon now, in his space, in his face, pawing at him at every opportunity. He wouldn’t have admitted it out loud but he was starting to _crave_ it.

He craved so much more.

It had been a long time — at least a year — since Alaric had invited the team to his house. He supposed this was a party, though the word made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, so mostly he’d just told people to come by, bring some drinks and have something to eat, no huge deal. Boyfriends, girlfriends, wives and husbands, a smattering of kids; they were family. Just, he was used to his own space, had been living alone for years (since he’d stepped down from active service with the SEALs, and joined the reserves) so that having a lot of people around made the hair on his neck prickle. It was a big house, with a big back yard, and it felt right to have people around; Alaric had built this large deck himself over a couple of weekends this past fall, and the garden, which was specifically designed to be as low-maintenance as possible, finally looked established.

And it was worth it, for all of this noise and life. Alaric missed having family around. Going from home, to the academy, to the Navy, living alone had taken time to get used to as well. Especially in a house at least three times the size of what needed. He could have said there wasn’t a lot of choice, if he wanted to live in the area; but the truth was, Alaric had bought the worst house on the best street so he had something to do with his hands. He’d renovated the kitchen, the bathrooms, all of the first and second level mostly by himself, plus of course the front and back gardens. Only the third floor, one huge, open space that was currently a dumping ground, remained in its original state. Alaric sometimes wondered what he’d do when he was finished. Sell it, maybe, and start again. Fill the hours, and he could fill the weeks, and the years went by before he had to take a breath.

Damon slipped an arm around his waist, crunching on a bread stick. “Turn those steaks before you ruin them too,” he barked, reaching for the tongs to do it himself.

“Would you like to take over, Damon?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, flipping the last few, as Alaric took a step away to carry a stack of plates to the serving table.

He’d put on some music, earlier, but a couple of the guys had brought guitars and were providing a much better soundtrack than his CD collection could have (it was hardly Alaric’s fault if nothing good had been released since 1999). Still, he put the music back on for a while so they could eat; meat, and salads, roast potatoes, the works. An early dinner so the parents could bow out when they needed to, and because the nights were beginning to get cold.

“He’s persistent.” Alaric turned his head to meet Liv’s cool, appraising expression.

“Please, he’s like that with everybody.” Alaric gave her a tight smile.

“No, he’s not.”

It was true. Damon was charismatic and friendly, but mostly, he reserved flirting for Alaric. Alaric just preferred not to acknowledge it.

“You know DADT was repealed years ago, right, boss?”

She always used these terms — boss, chief, lieutenant — as if she somehow meant the exact opposite.

“Yes, Liv, I’m well aware.”

“I’m just saying. Your commitment to heterosexuality has never been what I’d call compelling. He’s hot, you’re hot… that _ass_.”

“Oh, my god, Liv. Can we not have this conversation in a back yard full of friends and colleagues? Please?” He dragged a hand down his face and went inside to the kitchen to grab another couple of bowls of salad. Liv followed, collecting bread rolls and sauce.

“Loud and clear, I’ll corner you Monday at work, how’s that?”

“How does unemployment sound?”

“Aw, you’re cute,” she said, with a wink, sashaying across the lawn to hoist one of the little boys up by his ankle and make him scream.

 

By nine that night, there were only six of them left. Matt, whose pregnant wife was staying with her sister for a couple of weeks in Virginia, and Jeremy, who was apparently single again, but out of his sling, at least. Liv, who seemed to be perpetually single despite being the living embodiment of dudenip (she had said more than once that while sex was as fundamental a human need as oxygen and cheetohs, she was about as interested in a relationship as she was in quitting her job to spray perfume on people at the mall. Privately, Alaric assumed there were not a lot of men in the world who wouldn’t be intimidated by her, and hoped that when she found one she liked who was actually worthy, she was ready for it). Tyler, no longer the new guy on the team after proving himself in Charlotte but still hard to get a hold on, hothead with what Alaric suspected would turn out to be a heart of gold. Alaric himself, and of course, Damon, sitting close enough so his arm bumped up against Alaric’s every time he moved.

“What’s on the docket next week, chief?” Matt asked, and Jeremy threw a handful of chips at him with his good arm.

“You wanna talk work?” he barked. “You’re not drunk enough, Donovan, drink more.” Tyler pulled a bottle of beer out of a cooler behind him and tossed it over. Matt caught it deftly. He had definitely been a football player in high school.

“Same old same old,” Alaric said. “Training. Joint day withsome of Atlanta PD on Tuesday, practice raids, that should be fun. First to die buys lunch on Wednesday. Last to die buys drinks on Friday.”

Tyler looked intrigued. Too new to be sick of a job that was essentially 24 hours of physical training a week, maybe ten hours of backing up local PD on more dangerous busts, and then somewhere between six and thirty hours of adrenaline and violence. Good shooter, good at hand to hand, as well. Alaric liked him. Liv did, too. Alaric could tell, by the way she’d studiously ignored him so far, except when being actively offensive.

“Just our luck to have a SWAT leader who survived BUDs,” Jeremy said.

Damon reached up to pull Alaric’s hair, and Alaric batted his hand away.

“You’re lucky. You’re ready for anything. Speaking of, I’m in Coronado week after next,” Alaric said. The team knew it meant Reserves training; that was about as much as he ever said about his previous life, and whether because of a general lack of interest (unlikely), respect for Alaric’s leadership (also unlikely) or wariness over his well-known temper (considerably more likely) no one ever pressed him for more. Other than Damon, who made sure they were alone before baiting him about _a few good men_ , Alaric’s capacity for tying knots, or on occasion, the Village People. Somehow, Alaric had refrained so far from shooting him in the face.

He headed inside to find a couple of bottles of something a little stronger. One of Jack Daniels, another of the spiced rum Liv and Jeremy liked. The house looked like a bomb had hit it; he’d be cleaning for half of the next day, but it didn’t bother him. He was feeling heavy, happy, expansive, as he collected half a dozen tumblers which didn’t quite match onto a tray and carried them back out to his team. Or part of it, anyway.

They shifted, bit by bit, from ‘definitely intoxicated’ to ‘for the love of god, call a taxi’, and around one, everyone left.

Except, Alaric realized, Damon, who was still sitting out the back with his hands wrapped around a glass of bourbon, a light blanket tucked around his shoulders.

“You want me to call you a cab?” Alaric said, dropping back into his own chair.

“No,” Damon said, quietly.

Alaric said nothing, pouring another splash of bourbon.

“I have a guest room.”

“You also have a bed with room for two,” Damon said, putting his glass on the table. “I don’t get you. You want me as badly as I want you.”

“You don’t get me? Really? Damon, you’re my partner. We work well together. We save lives together, put bad guys away together.”

“I don’t hear you passionately denying that you want me.”

“ _Yet_. You honestly don’t understand why I’d be reluctant to do anything to complicate this relationship? Honestly?” He was annoyed, but his voice betrayed nothing but exasperated fondness. Maybe there was some serious denial going on.

Damon shrugged. “Could make it _better_. Are you too chickenshit to find out?”

“I’m not too chickenshit for anything,” Alaric said. “But as difficult as it might be for you to comprehend, I’m definitely too sensible for some things. _I_ don’t get _you_.”

“Oh, I’m pretty uncomplicated,” Damon said, quietly. “Love at first sight, hearts and roses, shooting the bad guys, happily ever after. What, you don’t believe in love at first sight?”

“No.” Alaric shook his head, chuckling. “No, I don’t.”

“Lust, then.”

Alright. Alaric nodded, and wiped his eye with the heel of his hand.

“Let me try something,” Damon said, his voice almost a purr.

“Oh, that voice. I already know this is a bad idea.” And indeed, Damon had slinked out of his chair, and was straddling Alaric’s hips, arms slung around Alaric’s neck, disorientingly close. “What are you doing, Damon?”

Hard to take the moral high ground here when his arms had already shifted, encircling Damon’s waist, when his cock was already twitching in his pants, but he restrained himself from pulling Damon closer. It felt like his body remembered what it was like, having Damon close, and craved it even more than Alaric himself did.

“If you don’t feel anything — I’ll stop, right now, and leave you alone. But if you do — you owe it to both of us to give this a chance. I double-dog dare you.”

Not feeling anything wasn’t the problem. Alaric hesitated. This was very dangerous territory. This was the moment to push Damon off, and stop this from getting any further. But he couldn’t. One hand moved up and over Damon’s back, all the way to cupping his neck, straining forward as Damon leaned in.

It was electric, but then, it was always going to be electric. Damon’s mouth was warm and welcoming and wet, tasted like bourbon, the best combination. Alaric pulled him in tighter. Damon’s hands moved down over his chest, slipping under his t-shirt, flattening against his stomach, and he let out a murmur Alaric licked right out of his mouth.

“Fuck, Damon…”

“Sure, if you think you can get it up after six beers and half a bottle of whiskey,” he purred. “Otherwise, I’m fine with making out like teenagers. There’s always morning sex…”

“I should call you a cab,” Alaric said again.

“But you won’t,” Damon replied.

And fuck him, he was right.

Damon sat up just long enough to pull his shirt off, and Alaric bit his lip; not the first time he’d seen Damon without a shirt on, obviously, but Alaric was always careful not to look too hard or too long. Damon was temptation enough in tac gear and body armor. Alaric ran both hands down over Damon’s chest, neat and sculpted, eliciting a shiver, and Damon leaned in to bite Alaric’s shoulder.

This was almost certainly enough to get Alaric onto the fast track into hell, but he couldn’t help himself, now this line had been crossed.

“I mean, I assume you have a bed somewhere in there,” Damon said, sitting back slightly, taking advantage of the moment to unbuckle Alaric’s belt. Alaric took his wrists in his hands. “Unless you Army types prefer to sleep on hammocks. Or under rocks. I don’t want to make assumptions, here.” He flicked open the top button of Alaric’s jeans, and Alaric caught his wrists in his hands.

“Navy.”

“Whatever,” Damon purred, his lips dragging across Alaric’s jaw.

“I don’t get it,” Alaric said. His voice sounded rough, needier than he would have liked.

“I have trouble believing that, but if you don’t know what you’re doing, I can steer you around the curves.”

“No,” Alaric said, biting back a laugh. “No, not that.” He tipped his head back, enough to give Damon an appraising look, from his hair, down over his face, that gorgeous mouth, all the way to the dark snail trial which disappeared into his jeans. “Why me? You started in five minutes after we met.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is — _underwear model_ , and me, I’m nothing special.”

Damon frowned, and pulled his wrists from Alaric’s loose grip.

“Yeah, you are,” he said. “Take me upstairs.”

Getting upstairs proved to be a challenge, with Damon’s hands all over him, pulling at his clothing, but once they were in Alaric’s bedroom, they wasted no time getting the rest of their clothing off. Nothing sexy about socks. Damon was stretched out over the bed in moments, arms up and hands behind his head, bring the muscles of his shoulders into glorious alignment, his eyes, bigger and darker now, roaming hungrily over Alaric’s body.

Fuck, this was such a mistake.

But it felt like a really, really good mistake.

Alaric settled over Damon’s body, growling as Damon’s legs came up to wrap around his hips. They were both hard, already, relieved to find a little friction as they returned to the kiss. Without speaking a word between them they shifted enough to get their hands between their bodies, Damon’s hand on Alaric’s cock, Alaric’s hand on Damon’s cock, and Damon made an almost obscene face as he fucked into Alaric’s hand.

“You’d better have an economy-sized bottle of lube,” he said, and Alaric laughed, dragging his lips across Damon’s neck, pausing to nip at his skin.

“Slow down,” he murmured. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to touch you like this…”

“Noooooo,” Damon said. “I’ve wanted to ride that thing since the first time I saw your ass in cargo pants. I’d call that slow _enough_.”

“We’re both drunk. We –––”

“I’m not drunk enough not to know I want this. I always want this. I _will_ always want this. Now shut your big brain off and start thinking with your little brain, you weirdo.”

Had to be good enough for now, and besides, Alaric was laughing again, rapidly forgetting why he’d ever been reluctant. Damon’s eyes sparkled, and his smile was unguarded, and Alaric thought it might be the beginning of a beautiful addiction, coaxing that smile onto Damon’s face.

Alaric took his time, dragging his mouth across Damon’s firm chest. Damon got a hand in his hair, scratching at his scalp, and Alaric felt a wave of something pass over his spinal cord, a line directly to his dick. He bit into Damon’s hip, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to taste him, to mark him, and was rewarded by a truly filthy moan, and Damon pushing his head down, pretty clear about what he wanted.

He had a nice cock, nice size, already hard as diamonds and trickling pre-come. It had been a while since Alaric had given a blow job, longer since he’d really wanted to, but he wanted to now. He licked over the tip, enough to make Damon growl impatiently, clutching at Alaric’s shoulder, still with one hand in his hair, and he licked slowly down the vein, throughly enjoying the way Damon’s hips snapped, and the dark eyes that found Alaric’s suddenly. Alaric lowered his mouth, slowly, torturously, and sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks around Damon’s cock. The babbling that induced was entertaining, and frankly, hot as sin. Alaric rolled Damon’s balls in his hand, brushed two knuckles over his perineum, teased over his hole.

“Stop,” Damon said, tapping Alaric’s shoulder, and Alaric reared back, alarmed. “No, not… I don’t wanna come like that,” Damon said. “Thought I made it pretty clear I wanted to you to fuck me.”

Alaric’s breath caught in his chest. Damon’s pupils were so dilated they barely even looked blue anymore, and instead of his usual expressions, alternately either smirking or pretending to be completely innocent, he was looking at Alaric with some bizarre combination of intensity and calm. No front in it. Just raw desire. Alaric stayed where he was, hands by Damon’s hips, holding himself up on his hands and knees, and finally, he nodded.

Jesus, he hoped he had lube. Alaric’s sex life hadn’t been anything to write home about for a long time, the occasional, fairly anonymous hookup when he was going out of his mind, that was all. He scrabbled through the top drawer and found a tube, and a strip of condoms. He glanced over at Damon, who was looking a little smug and a lot blissy, spreading his legs lazily in anticipation and playing absently with his cock.

Temptation on a platter.

This was such a terrible idea. The repercussions could be catastrophic. Alaric didn’t care.

He trailed his lips up Damon’s body again, pausing to trace his collar bones with his tongue, as Damon’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he made an impatient noise. Alaric kissed him, then, revealing in the way Damon chased his mouth, so needy. He swallowed the groan Damon made when he slipped a finger into his hole, head falling back momentarily so that Alaric was presented with his throat, all stretched out and begging to be tasted. He peppered heavy, biting kisses against Damon’s neck and shoulder and adjusted his body for comfort as he added a second finger. He began in earnest to work Damon open, never missing an opportunity to brush his fingers over Damon’s prostate.

“Fuck,” Damon said, whole body jerking as Alaric hit home. “Why are you going so slow?”

“Wanna savor it,” Alaric murmured, against Damon’s ear, mouthing at his earlobe, nuzzling behind to find a spot that made Damon shiver. He added a third finger, finding Damon’s mouth again, kisses getting fantastically sloppy and heated, tongues sliding together and bitten lips; Damon’s mouth was swollen, when Alaric pulled back far enough to see, and when he did, Damon chased his lips and hooked his arm more firmly across his neck.

“Savor it next time,” Damon said, getting impatient again. All the money in the Vatican couldn’t have forced Alaric to say there wouldn’t be a next time; he was sunk, now, and he knew it. Damon pushed back against Alaric’s fingers, nails dragging across Alaric’s back, complaining little grunts and groans dropping from his lips. Alaric pulled back, and Damon rolled over, partly on his side, partly on his stomach, one leg carelessly tossed over to the side to give Alaric better access.

Alaric opened his mouth as he tore open a condom packet, and as if he was psychic, Damon spluttered.

“Don’t you dare ask me if I’m sure,” he growled.

Alaric rolled the condom on and lowered his body to Damon’s, taking himself in hand — fuck, he was so hard he was sore, shouldn’t have been able to get it up at all the way he’d been drinking — and pushed inside, slowing down briefly as Damon gasped, Alaric’s head stretching him further. When Damon looked over his shoulder petulantly, Alaric pushed deeper, only stopping when his body was flush against Damon’s. He pressed himself to Damon’s back and kissed his shoulder, inhaled his scent.

He didn’t thrust, so much as roll, until Damon pushed back against him, and then he really began to move. The height difference made it easy for them to kiss, but the last thing he’d anticipated was Damon’s hand tangling with his own.

“Harder,” Damon said, pushing back, and Alaric started to see white. He let his rhythm build, and let go of Damon’s hand, reaching for his cock, instead, revealing in the way Damon pushed and pulled into each sensation, sweat building on his neck and every muscle in his upper body rippling dangerously.

When Alaric shifted angles, subtly, Damon let out an almighty groan and came in thick spurts, splashing over Alaric’s hand and his own stomach, on the sheet. Alaric moved his hand, on impulse, to Damon’s mouth. Damon sucked two fingers in greedily, tasting himself, and clamped down hard on Alaric’s cock as he did it.

Alaric came with a shout, rocking more gently through the aftershocks, and finally settled against Damon’s back, unwilling to move just yet. His rapidly softening cock slipped out of Damon’s body, and he had no choice but to move, then, tying off the condom and dropping it beside the bed. He couldn’t bring himself to deal with it, right then. Instead he draped himself over Damon’s back, and nuzzled between his shoulders.

“That was…” Damon murmured, pulling Alaric’s arm tighter across his stomach.

“Yeah,” Alaric agreed, mouthing a kiss, tasting salt on Damon’s skin. Dragging his teeth across it, briefly, until Damon shivered, and kissed his knuckles. Damon rolled over onto his back, and then his side, curling closer to Alaric, leaning in until their foreheads touched.

This should have been the moment Alaric suggested Damon get a taxi home. It should have been, not only because this was doubtlessly going to prove to be a mistake, but because Damon really didn’t need Alaric waking from a nightmare at five in the morning and scaring the shit out of him.

But he said nothing, just pulled the blankets up over them, and cupped Damon’s face in his hand, and drew him in for another kiss; gentler, softer than the others, but no less searing for all of that. Their foreheads pressed together, and Damon reached up to press his hand against Alaric’s heart. Their noses brushed, and Alaric felt a pang, utterly unfamiliar and vaguely terrifying.

“I’m planning to be really hard to get rid of,” Damon murmured, as Alaric reached behind himself, to turn off the bedside lamp. Alaric felt his whole body stutter. What a wonderful, terrifying thought.

Damon rolled over, pressing his back against Alaric’s chest, pulling his arm across his body. Lulled by alcohol and sex, they fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alaric is a little more messed up than Damon had calculated, but hey, he can work with it.

Damon hadn’t anticipated waking up at five in the morning, and not by Alaric thrashing. He caught an elbow to the chin and let out a very undignified ‘oof' as he recoiled. Undeterred, he rounded on Alaric, gripping his upper arms and pushing him into the mattress. Alaric’s skin was slick with sweat, and even when he’d opened his eyes, they were wild, and unfocussed.

“Goddammit, you’re twice my size, Ric. Chill already,” Damon growled, and Alaric stilled, briefly, and then sat up, hair soaking wet and sweat dripping from his nose.

Damon brushed a hand over his cheek. “You’re fine,” he said. “You’re safe. Home.”

Alaric looked guilty, miserable, and if that wasn’t a one-two punch, he looked embarrassed, as well. He pulled away from Damon’s hand with the least convincing laugh Damon had ever heard, and draped his arms over his drawn-up knees.

“Fuck. Sorry.”

Damon frowned. “You don’t need to be sorry. It was a fucking nightmare. Do you get them often?”

Alaric scrubbed a hand over his face. “No,” he lied, badly.

“And the Oscar for worst performance goes to…”

Alaric grabbed his phone, and checked the time. “I need to get out for a run, anyway,” he said, leaping out of bed with an obscene amount of energy for someone who had to be hungover, and probably a little sore, because, for the love of all that was holy, that had been a very thorough fucking. Damon was disappointed that the morning was looking far less likely to involve a repeat performance, particularly as he’d been planning to map every inch of Alaric’s skin with his mouth and then blow him.

Instead, Damon was staring in disbelief as Alaric pulled on a pair of (admittedly delicious) running shorts and a tank top. They were predicting storms, this early in the… _five fucking thirty_ on a Sunday? What the actual fuck. It wasn’t even light outside, and it was going to be freezing cold.

“We train a thousand hours a week at work. Why do you ‘need’ to go for a run? _Ever_?”

Alaric’s head dipped, as if he was embarrassed again. “You should probably go,” he said, as he pulled on a pair of sports socks that looked like they’d been in service since the late nineties, and a pair of running shoes that were close to brand new. And extremely technical. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, pulling away from the loose grip Damon had on his shoulder, and he was gone, down the stairs, the front door closing with a very soft click.

What the _actual_ fuck.

Damon scrubbed his hand over his face. Barely awake yet and here was this.

Damon wasn’t blind. Honestly, Alaric was much too locked down to be okay; anyone who bothered to pay attention day to day would have noticed that, and he did think that some of the team were aware. Of the way the hinge of his jaw never seemed still, of the often lightly bloodshot eyes of a chronic insomniac, of the vein in his forehead which suggested that every moment he didn’t spend wearing himself out physically was a moment when he was at risk of aneurism, as if action was the antidote to thinking, and thinking was dangerous. And there was something about a guy who was so used to being shot at in hostile countries that he had taken on the role of leading a SWAT unit where he was just as likely to get shot at.

Damon sat with his back against Alaric’s headboard and stared at the door for a good long time.

He did a fantastic bit of math in his head and decided that the chances he was sober enough to drive were pretty remote; and his motivation to leave was even smaller. He sat like that for a while, only noticing a few minutes in that his heart was racing.

Ugh, why did he have to fall in love with a lame duck?

And there was no question he was in love. Just his idiot luck. Just to stretch the whole duck metaphor, Damon felt like he’d imprinted on Alaric in the first ten minutes they’d known each other. Loved his pale, golden eyelashes and single-minded focus, the way he ran drills, his arms — oh, fuck, those arms. Those fucking arms, the shoulders they were attached to, and that was going to be so much harder to take now Damon had had those arms wrapped around him. Warm and secure and affectionate.

He spent a cursory three minutes finding out if it was possible to get back to sleep, and then gave up.

The house — which, incidentally, was beautiful, and made Damon wish he had ever lived in a place that felt like home — was a mess, of course. It was a matter of ten minutes to empty the dishwasher and reload it, and then he started in on the bottles. Too early to toss them into the recycle bin, but at least he collected them all up in a rubbish bag he found in the bottom of the kitchen pantry (privacy? Never met her) and put it on the deck out the back.

Another bag was filled with paper plates and food waste. Considerably quieter, so he took it outside, hunting around for a few minutes before he found the rubbish bin. It was still dark outside, and chilly, and Damon was probably underdressed in nothing but a pair of boxers, but the cold felt good against his skin. Made him feel a little better, anyway, and definitely more awake. He slipped back into the house, wondering how long Aquaman could run for in this weather and in that condition. Long enough, it turned out, for Damon to load the dishwasher a second time, which almost got them all the way done, and to wipe down all the surfaces. There, mostly clean. Ish.

The door flew open, and Alaric bounded up the stairs, shirt soaked with sweat, not noticing that he wasn’t alone. Damon heard the shower only moments later, and narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest.

Alaric had just assumed he’d left when told. Hilarious, since Alaric’s primary complaint seemed to be that Damon _never_ did what he was told. Conundrum. Well, they probably had twelve hours or so to figure things out. More than enough time for Damon to convince Alaric to pick a date in June.

He rummaged through the fridge — at least a million bottles of hot sauce, many bearing very worrying warnings; but very little actual food. Eventually he found half a carton of eggs, a bag of mushrooms, a little withered, and a package of bacon close to the use-by date. No doubt the sugar-free granola in the pantry was the more common choice. With the — ew, _groo_ ** _ooss_** _ssss_ — almond milk in the fridge. Damon magnanimously rose above the offending beverage, just started cooking up a good, hearty, hangover-busting breakfast and waiting for Alaric to come back downstairs.

He wasn’t entirely surprised when Alaric returned with his service pistol in hand.

“Don’t shoot,” he said, droll. “I’m making breakfast, and it would be a horrifying waste.”

Alaric paused at the foot of the stairs, but lowered his weapon.

“You’re making breakfast?”

“Right? It’s ridiculous, because a) you should be doing it, because you got so thoroughly laid last night and you’re so very grateful to me and my perfectly sculpted ass, and b) — you took off on me before dawn, so should be sucking up.” He shrugged his shoulders, and tossed the mushrooms in their pan. “But I’m adaptable. And forgiving. I’m a catch, face it.”

Alaric didn’t move, for long moments, and when Damon looked up, his expression was inscrutable. Alaric put his gun in a drawer on the sideboard, though, and turned his eyes towards the stove.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t expect…”

Damon flapped a hand, waving off further explanations as he poured coffee. He knew Alaric well enough to know he didn’t take cream or sugar (either would probably have ruined the Spartan aesthetic, and Damon was reasonably sure Alaric saw sugar as a literal manifestation of satan), and he pushed the mug across the table without fanfare.

Alaric accepted the coffee, and took a sip, still not making eye contact. “Thanks,” he said, quietly, resting his palm on the counter as if holding himself up.

“How often does that happen?” Damon asked, quietly, trying and failing to sound disinterested.

Alaric shrugged, and looked at the pan, about as nonchalant as a cat that has been busted doing something inelegant, and would prefer you didn’t notice, thanks. He shifted his weight, and put down his coffee, so he could pull out some plates, and toss some of yesterday’s bread into the toaster. He was carefully moving to avoid bumping into Damon, who was doing the exact opposite, landing a hand on Alaric’s hip or arm at every opportunity, and gratified by the way Alaric seemed to let himself linger in the contact. He slipped his arms around Alaric’s waist as Alaric spread (real, actual, full-fat) butter on the toast, and Alaric glanced down at him, with a small smile on his face, and didn’t resist, even when Damon slipped a hand up under his t-shirt; a not-unwelcome gesture, if the twitching beneath his hand was anything to go by.

“It’s Sunday. It’s going to rain most of the day, so the bad guys are staying home to read and do the laundry, and we can _relax_. I know you’re not exactly built for it,” he said, turning around again to grab the pan. He began neatly stacking the toast with eggs, bacon, and what was now a truly pathetic pile of exceptionally tasty mushrooms. “But think of it as a training regimen.”

“A training regimen,” Alaric parroted, trying to stop his lip from curling into a smile; Damon smirked.

“That’s what I said.” He carried the plates to the table, shuddered at the flaming skull on the label of Alaric’s hot sauce bottle (undoubtedly lethal stuff) and sedately tossed some salt and fresh ground black pepper over his own breakfast.

They ate silently, but companionably, for a moment, Alaric reading idly from yesterday’s newspaper, and Damon appraising the room, and watching the sky outside resolutely fail to get lighter. The sun was well and truly up, but the dark grey clouds were getting denser. It would be a spectacular rainfall, once it started. A good day to be inside, sprawled on the couch on top of a tall, socially awkward Navy SEAL.

“When was your last relationship?” Damon asked, startling Alaric. He pushed the newspaper aside, and carried his plate to the sink.

“I’m not a monk, Damon,” Alaric replied, flatly, not exactly embarrassed, but certainly not aware of the split between what he’d asked, and what he’d answered. He seemed mildly uncomfortable about the fact that Damon was still in his house, but he hadn’t suggested Damon leave again, which felt like progress. A low bar for progress, yes, but progress.

“I wasn’t talking about sex,” Damon said, having lost interest in his breakfast, as he stretched languidly on the dining room chair. Still wearing nothing but boxers (had Alaric noticed they were his? The dangerous way they were hanging off his hips should have been a clue), he knew what he looked like, and didn’t bother pretending he hadn’t noticed Alaric trying, and failing, not to look. “I asked about your last relationship. You know, sleepovers and mash notes and holding hands at the drive-in. Pet names.”

“I’m in the Navy, Damon,” he said, as if that explained anything.

“ _Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell_ was repealed years ago.” Damon narrowed his eyes. Alaric was still in the kitchen, pretending not to scream internally.

“It’s not about that.”

“So, what’s it about?”

“It’s about the fact that since I graduated from Annapolis when I was twenty-two years old, I’ve been shuttled from place to place, country to country, mission to mission, with no way of knowing where I’ll be next year, let alone next month. Or next week. And that’s not something I can expect someone else to deal with.”

“Are you saying…”

So Alaric had never actually been in a relationship. That was interesting.

“You’ve lived in Atlanta for years,” Damon went on.

“I’m still in the Reserves.”

“So you disappear a couple of times a year. Big deal.” He shrugged. He wished he knew Alaric well enough to know what he was thinking, but alas, not yet.

Alaric shook his head, and finally made eye contact, briefly. He looked tired, and older. “It’s a lot more complicated than that. I could get called back. I could… do you know how many funerals I’ve been to, Damon? How many guys I’ve buried, who never even got the chance to meet their own kids? Do you know how people with partners in the military sleep, Damon? They don’t. Not well. And it’s not like being a cop. Yeah, we work hard. Yeah, we get shot at. Yeah, people die. But no one has someone sitting at home for weeks or months before they find out the person they love isn’t coming home. Doing that to someone you love just seems so unfair.”

It was the longest speech Damon had ever heard come out of Alaric’s mouth. He leaned forward, and put his elbows on the table.

“Sounds like a decision the partners make for themselves,” he said. He didn’t bother mentioning that the chances of Alaric being called back up were astronomically low. In truth, he was probably imagining that to be the case, just to cheer himself up. Worth googling next time he was bored in a queue somewhere.

Alaric was still standing in the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, staring out at the rain that had begun to fall. Barely after 7.30 am on a Sunday. This was too heavy. Alaric’s eyes were unfocused, and slightly glassy, and Damon wondered if he was imagining funerals, and bewildered toddlers, and crying wives and girlfriends, silent nods of condolence to grieving boyfriends whose presence could not be acknowledged.

The hinge of his jaw flexed, and his Adam’s apple shifted, and Damon was on his feet before he realized he had a plan. Standing in the kitchen, bracketing Alaric’s hips against the counter with his hands, nuzzling against the infuriating cotton of his old, soft shirt, emblazoned with the name of a triathlon Damon didn’t give a shit about. He dragged his hands up Alaric’s sides, and pressed his mouth to Alaric’s neck, and finally felt Alaric respond.

Damon felt Alaric surge forward, and reeled for a moment, thinking he was being pushed away. He was not. Alaric’s arms were like steel bars around his body, his mouth rough and eager and wanting against Damon’s. He let out a keening sound Damon wouldn’t have though plausible just yesterday.

It was no effort for Damon to encourage Alaric to shift him to the countertop, where he could wrap his legs around Alaric’s waist and grind against his body.

“Damon,” Alaric murmured. It sounded, briefly, like the beginning of an extremely boring sentence along the lines of ‘Damon, you should go home’ or ‘Damon, we can’t do this’. But apparently, Alaric had just wanted to see what Damon’s name tasted like, when their bodies were flush together, and Damon responded with an appreciative purr, tipping his head back to encourage Alaric to shift the action to his neck.

There was something to be said about a sexually dominant guy who knew how to take direction. Damon teased the hem of Alaric’s t-shirt, and Alaric pulled it off without a second’s hesitation, letting it fall to the floor forgotten.

“I want to taste you,” Damon murmured, rolling his hips. “Everywhere. I want to get my hands on you and take you apart. I want to show you why I’m worth the risk.”

Alaric’s eyes were half-lidded and foggy-looking when he pulled away just far enough to let his gaze drift to Damon’s mouth, and his chest was brushed with the same shade of pink as his cheeks were. The rain outside was getting steadily heavier. It felt like an appropriate backdrop, the glass becoming opaque with condensation, rivulets running down the windows.

“Would it be the worst thing?” Damon asked, above a whisper, but not by far.

Alaric was obviously confused. Damon supposed it was fair enough. No one would have thought his thoroughly debauched itinerary could possibly be the worst thing.

“Finding out we could make each other happy,” he said, and Alaric met his eyes again. So serious. So intense, and focussed, and what fucking color were his eyes? Some people were just excessive. Damon squeezed Alaric’s hips with his thighs, and brushed his lips just barely over Alaric’s. They might not have touched. They might have shared breath.

Alaric rested his forehead on Damon’s shoulder, and Damon scratched through his hair, remembering that had gone down very well the night before. Alaric sighed, but didn’t pull away.

“You remember I’m still your boss, right?”

Damon grinned, and flicked his tongue against Alaric’s ear. “I can be discreet.”

Alaric’s face, when he pulled away, was the picture of amusement and incredulity, eyes sparkling in a way Damon rarely saw. Lines appeared around his eyes, and Damon suddenly imagined him at fifty, sixty, getting better-looking every year, like… fuck! Harrison Ford, that was who Damon was thinking of. He licked his lips, and smirked, and Alaric stepped back, pulling him off the counter.

“I’m not gonna throw you out in this weather,” he said, ushering Damon towards the stairs up to the second floor.

“Chivalry’s not dead,” Damon said, voice dripping wine and honey.

 

If there had been witnesses… poets, playwrights, artists, the day would have gone down in history. If Damon could draw more than stick figures, he’d at least have attempted to memorialize it all with some choice diagrams. For what seemed like hours, Damon and Alaric kissed lazily, and then hungrily, and then lazily again, pausing to doze or talk about something, or nothing at all. They’d wake reaching for each other, curling in together, trying to climb into each other’s skin; Damon kept his promise, mapped acres of warm, surprisingly pale flesh and muscle with his lips, and his tongue, and his hands. And though he suspected it was difficult for Alaric to lie there and take it, let himself be worshipped, he did, letting his fingers sift through Damon’s perpetually messy hair, or watching him with those indescribable eyes.

When he turned the tables on Damon, he was demanding, just the right side of controlling, holding Damon’s hips in place, marking him with dark little bruises Damon wanted to tattoo onto his skin. He rimmed Damon until Damon was begging to be fucked, and then obligingly did that, too, face to face, dripping sweat, working until Damon knew he was going to feel it for days. His eyes never left Damon’s until he’d ridden out a rough, orgasm that seemed to last forever. Damon was long gone, by then. Alaric tasted the come that was spread over his chest and stomach, before rolling off and onto his back, dealing with the condom, and slowly bringing his breath back under control.

Damon slipped his hand into Alaric’s, and Alaric squeezed back.

Later, on waking from another brief nap, eyes closed, lips occasionally pressing together, Damon started needling, quietly.

“Can you fly a helicopter?” he asked. Alaric reached out to drape an impossibly large hand across his jaw.

“I told you. I don’t talk about that stuff.”

“I’m not asking for details of covert ops,” Damon said, moving closer. This was getting messy. At some point, he was going to suggest more food, and maybe something dumb on TV. “I don’t wanna know if you killed Kennedy. I’m asking about a _skill_. That seems straightforward enough to me.” He thought he sounded completely reasonable.

“Okay. Yeah, I can. And I’ve done it for SWAT a few times. No secret.”

“Can you fly a plane?”

“Some planes.” Alaric shrugged, and rolled Damon onto his back so he could nuzzle into his throat again. “Sea, air and land, Damon, it’s kind of the point.”

“Ever jumped out of a plane?”

Alaric hesitated a second, and then shrugged. “Sure. When I’ve had to.”

“And obviously you can drive a boat.”

“Drive?” Alaric chuckled. “Sure, uh, I can _drive_ a boat.”

Damon reached out, and forced a moment of eye contact. “Those things all sound a lot harder than this,” he said. “I think you’ll manage.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Alaric said, and it was the most relaxed Damon had ever seen him.

Outside, the rain never let up. Damon couldn’t bring himself to care.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's progress, but it's far from easy.

“You want to go grab a bite?”

Alaric turned to see Damon doing his very best ‘I don’t care either way’ face, but Alaric knew him well enough by now to know that was usually bullshit.

And it was stupid, because they’d been getting dinner together a couple of times a week since they’d been made partners. Still. What had happened Saturday night changed things. Dinner wouldn’t be Damon doing his best to make Alaric blush, and Alaric making noises about needing to get some sleep at about half past eight, and pretending he wasn’t enjoying every second of Damon’s outrageous flirting.

He probably only stared hesitantly for ten or twelve seconds, but it felt like an eternity. The problem was… nothing he’d said to Damon was any less true than it had been after 36 hours of crawling out of bed only to shower or eat. He still thought it was a terrible idea for Damon to get attached. Of course, it was obviously way too late for that. If he’d thought Damon was clingy and affectionate before a long weekend of skirting around an agreement to give this — give _them_ — a try, it paled in comparison to the three days since.

The fact that Damon had managed to wait until Wednesday to even suggest it was probably reflective only of the fact that Alaric had stayed back late for reports and intel meetings, rather than any genuine attempt at self-control.

So. Ten seconds, maybe twelve, and it was only when Damon’s casual smile dropped minutely and his eyes grew a tiny bit wider that Alaric said “Yeah, sure. I’m starving.”

Damon looked relieved, but in true Damon fashion, the only way he expressed it was to waggle his eyebrows and say he hoped Alaric was _thirsty_ , too. The way he emphasized the word ‘thirsty’ made Alaric’s stomach do flip-flops. They headed out to the parking lot, and paused between their cars, parked close together.

“I’m kind of tired,” Damon said, in a sparkling voice that suggested he was not in any way tired. “Let’s just get takeout.” He took a step closer as he said it, and Alaric hoped no one was looking. It was dark, at least. Heading into winter, and the days seemed to be getting rapidly shorter.

“I could do takeout,” Alaric agreed, almost surprising himself. He couldn’t help but flick his gaze to Damon’s bottom lip. Damon smirked, and made a show of opening his car door, so their bodies bumped. “That Malaysian place.”

“I’ll get the beer and meet you at home.” Damon said, and then he was pulling out of the parking lot before Alaric could object to his proprietary use of the word ‘home’.

 

 

Forty minutes later they were sitting on Alaric’s couch, quietly bickering over the food, piling bowls high with fragrant coconut curries and jasmine rice, egg noodles and vegetables. Alaric had ordered everything medium heat, but with a big side of fresh sliced chili so he could actually taste it. Damon was complaining about Alaric’s flagrant abuse of his digestive tract, and expertly waving his chopsticks around.

“You’re doing the loud thinking thing again. How can I possibly focus on whatever this stupid show is if you’re thinking that loud?”

“Wow, Damon, that sounds like a you problem if ever I heard one,” Alaric deadpanned in reply. “Let me know if you figure it out. Want me to hit pause? I won’t do it, I’m just curious.”

“You’re the worst. I want a divorce.”

“I’ve got bad news about that.”

“Did you take all the cauliflower? It’s the only vegetable I don’t hate with every fiber of my being. I hope I get scurvy and die so you have to prostrate yourself at my graveside.”

Alaric didn’t think he’d ever had a rhythm with someone before. Not like this. A verbal sparring partner. He was enjoying it far too much, trying and failing to keep what he thought was probably a shit-eating grin off his face. He watched Damon pay a good twenty seconds of close attention to the television — Alaric had already forgotten what they’d chosen for background noise — slurping up noodles like they were pasta. He couldn’t blame Damon for being hungry. He’d worked the team hard, that day.

He regretted bitterly that he was off for annual training on Sunday. No matter how much of a mistake Alaric thought this was, he was enjoying himself far too much. Being with Damon, even casual and stupid like this, was like an addiction. Damon sitting awkwardly close, and making outraged faces. Alaric didn’t want to spend a week doing BUD/s light. He wanted to stay here, practice this. Find a way to be alright with it.

Everyone else got this. Half of his team were fathers. He deserved something that was just for himself.

“You’re staring at me,” Damon said, smugly.

“I was just wondering if you were born bitching and moaning or if you had to take lessons.”

“What can I say, you bring out my bitchy side,” Damon said, and started shoveling noodles into his mouth again.

When neither of them could move, or eat another mouthful, they relaxed into the back of the couch, vaguely paying attention to what was on the screen (a documentary series on serial killers which Alaric had been watching for a couple of months, though he was clearly going to need to watch this episode again sometime when he was less distracted), and Damon scooted under Alaric’s arm.

“You were right,” Alaric said.

“ _Holy mother of fuck_ , alert the media. I’m right _all the_ ** _ti_** _me_ , but I think that might be the first time you’ve admitted it. Can I get it in writing? Can you say it again, into a camera? Will you sign something?”

He blinked slowly at Alaric, and twitched an eyebrow, before settling back into place.

Asshole. Alaric stayed silent. Damon couldn’t not know things, that was well-established.

“I need context. What was I right about? You’ll get an ulcer if you keep eating that much chili? Army Rangers shouldn’t be allowed to train SWAT Units?”

“You know I’m Navy.”

“Ooh, I love it when you get all bolshy and correct me. What was I right about? If it’s that even the best documentaries are nowhere _near_ as much fun as the absolute worst thing on HBO, I accept your apology and I’m willing to school you on Game of Thrones. It’s basically historically accurate. I know you like that. Except the whole dragon thing.”

Alaric snorted, and brushed his lips over Damon’s temple.

“Oh, you’re the fucking worst. What was I right about? Specifically?”

This was a mistake. This should be a casual night the couch eating takeout in anticipation of some very mutually satisfying sex, and a good night’s sleep. Alaric faltered.

“I’ll jump out of a plane, yes. I’ve done things I can’t even think about now. Things no sane person would do. I’m not even sure it’s courage, you know? It’s just training. Do what you have to, do what you’re told, some variation on those. It’s not really courage when you’re not really afraid. The idea of dying never bothered me. I’ll admit I worried about being injured badly enough to be forced out, but…”

A memory hit Alaric, hard.

It was the helicopter ride that had left his back scarred severely. He didn’t know if Damon had even seen it, yet; unless he’d noticed while they were sleeping, Alaric doubted it. They were manning a medevac after an explosion on a mosque in Afghanistan. Triage had been one of the worst experiences of Alaric’s life; a red mark on the forehead of anyone with no hope of surviving, a green mark on the forehead of anyone that had a chance of making it with the ground crews, and a black mark for anyone whose chances were at least fifty-fifty if they were taken to the base hospital outside Kashgar. Those were the people they took on the helicopter.

He’d been so focused on any threats from the ground that he would have, _should_ have missed it. The smallest gesture from a young woman who couldn’t have been any older than sixteen. She slipped a grenade out of her pocket, and pulled the pin.

The chaos had been immediate; one of Alaric’s team had tried to grab it, but there was no way. It was too late. Alaric had grabbed her hand, and a handful of fabric from her burqa, and before he’d really known he was going to do it, he’d pulled her out of the helicopter, and they were spiraling towards the ground.

It had been weeks before he could really acknowledge that he hadn’t expected to survive. And if she hadn’t been suddenly dragged a good distance from the helicopter by a rogue air current before the grenade went off, he wouldn’t have.

Of course, it meant that once he hit the ground (… admittedly about an hour after his parachute had snagged in a tree), he was miles from anywhere he knew he could regroup, he was injured, and he had very little in the way of supplies. His satellite phone had been damaged beyond repair, though he kept it with him, hoping the GPS transponder might still be functioning, even if the rest of it was not.

Eventually, he’d found a village where a small deployment of mainly female naval officers were doing outreach programs to try to prevent families from allowing their young sons to be taken as soldiers. When at last he’d had a chance to sleep somewhere safe, he finally allowed himself to think about that young woman.

He couldn’t be angry. Couldn’t resent her. She was the product of a thousand societal forces, and she was doing what she thought was right. Or at least, what she’d been told to do. Her eyes had been full of fear and apology when they’d made eye contact for a brief moment on the way out of the helicopter.

“Where’d you go,” Damon asked, quietly, voice a rich velvet, reaching out to brush his fingers over Alaric’s cheek.

“When it comes to this,” Alaric said, evenly, because he had to own this, “I’m chickenshit.”

Damon stilled.

“I think you’re doing alright.”

Alaric needed desperately to regroup. He eased his way out from behind Damon’s chest, despite a sudden squawking objection.

“I could use something a little stronger than beer,” he said, and the sudden stiffness in Damon’s body ebbed. “Bourbon?”

“Sure. Not too much. I’ll be disappointed if you’re not in any shape to fuck me raw in an hour or so.”

 

 

Damon’s mouth tasted amazing. His skin tasted even better. Every sound he made, as Alaric manhandled him onto his stomach, was worth committing to memory. Most memorable; when Alaric spread the cheeks of his ass roughly and licked a wide stripe over his hole, slowing down to ease him open on two fingers and then tongue-fuck him until he actually seemed to have reverted to Italian.

“You don’t fuck like you’re afraid,” Damon said, as Alaric replaced his tongue with three fingers. He had no answer for that. He kissed and licked his way up Damon’s spine, focussing on every knob of vertebrae (it seemed so fragile, but it wasn’t; Alaric knew Damon was strong. He wouldn’t have survived his first week of training with the team if he couldn’t hold his own. And yet, the impression of fragility was there, despite the powerful muscles, especially across his shoulders and down his arms). Alaric withdrew his fingers, and Damon seemed to grunt a pleading complaint at the loss.

Alaric couldn’t have said later why the urge to slap Damon’s ass had translated so immediately to actually slapping it. Alaric had some distant awareness that he was a dominant top, but he was pretty sure that was the sort of thing that should be negotiated in advance, and he was prepared with a horrified apology when Damon let out the neediest grunt Alaric had every heard.

“Where the fuck have you been all my life?” Damon growled, with his teeth clenched. He crawled into Alaric’s lap, straddling his thighs, and lowered himself down onto Alaric’s cock, faster than Alaric might have imagined, despite a flash of discomfort that traveled over his features.

“The Navy,” Alaric growled in return.

There was nothing gentle about this.

Their bodies were pressed together. Damon’s legs were wrapped tight around Alaric’s waist, and they were both pouring sweat, kissing viciously as Alaric fucked ruthlessly into Damon’s hole. It felt so fucking good, but Damon’s eyes on him, utterly devoted, that felt a thousand times better. Alaric doubted he’d ever understand it. Why someone like Damon would want someone like him. But he did; the desire in his eyes wasn’t casual, it was passionate. It was glorious. It was everything Alaric had ever wanted, and thought he’d never have, and denied himself. Their bodies rolled, their tongues tangled, and when Damon’s head fell back Alaric bit his collarbone. Every inch of his skin was electrified.

He closed his hand around Damon’s cock, and that was apparently enough; Damon came roughly, and not quietly, in the narrow space between their bodies, while Alaric continued to fuck him ruthlessly, energized by something far beyond lust.

But it couldn’t last forever.

Alaric shouted as he came, and Damon pulled him closer, gripped him tighter, letting him ride the aftershocks until all they could do was look at each other.

Damon seemed unwilling to separate. Alaric understood that. He didn’t want to let go either. He rested his forehead on Damon’s shoulder and tried to slow his breathing.

“Tell me I can keep you,” Damon said, nuzzling Alaric’s cheek.

“I want you to.”

“Tell me I can.”

Could he lie? The truth was, he wanted this. No question. He wanted all of it. He imagined Damon moving in here. Working together, sleeping together, waking together. Other people got that; why shouldn’t they?

There was a sudden, aching emptiness. Alaric couldn’t promise a thing, and he knew it.

“I want to stay,” he promised, forcing himself to meet Damon’s eyes, while his cock softened and slipped from Damon’s body. Fuck, they hadn’t used a condom. Pair of idiots. “I do. And I will promise you I’ll stay as long as I can.”

Damon’s eyes dulled to acceptance, and he leaned in for another kiss.

“I suppose that will have to do,” he said, flatly. “Can we shower before we sleep?”

 

 

Sleep, of course, was always a relative term, for Alaric.

He fell asleep easier, with Damon pressed against him. No question about that. He even fell asleep optimistic that he might not wake with a nightmare, though in reality he thought he could probably count on two hands the number of nights he hadn’t woken up since he’d arrived home. Or arrived in Atlanta, and decided it would do for home. When he woke, Damon was trying to hold him to the bed, talking in a way that suggested he’d moved fairly quickly through quiet pleas to shouted commands.

Alaric didn’t even wake all the way until his back slammed against the headboard.

His attempt to shrug it off with a laugh was met with an expression that was difficult to interpret, in the low light, but which he suspected probably amounted to ‘you are super messed up and need a lot of therapy’. He couldn’t even disagree, but his three previous attempts at therapy had gone so spectacularly badly that he didn’t think he could force himself to try a fourth.

“Some people have it a lot worse,” he said, wiping sweat from his face. “It’s okay. I promise, it’s okay.”

“It’s about as far from okay as you can get, idiot. You need sleep. Remember how people like to shoot at us? You need to be on the ball in order to not get killed, and in case you’ve failed to notice, I have a vested interest in you staying alive.”

That was about as romantic a declaration as Alaric had ever heard. He closed his arms over Damon’s forearms.

“I’m sorry. Look, just — no matter what, you don’t have to actually sleep here. I have two guest bedrooms, and I won’t be offended if you go home… I mean, if you want to… keep. Doing this. I mean.”

He was still half caught up in the ugly images in his brain.

“I cannot _believe_ I fell in love with Joan of Arc.”

Damon’s expression was half-frightened, half-incredulous.

“I need some air or something,” Alaric said. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll be back in a while.”

 

 

He hadn’t been sitting in the cold, on the deck, for ten minutes, when Damon came down, wrapping Alaric’s robe around his otherwise naked body as he stepped into the cold.

“So, we’re three for three on the nightmare front,” he said, taking a seat alongside Alaric. “I don’t want to be all advice column-y, but if you’re getting four hours of sleep a night, it’s probably worth trying to get some help.”

“Been there, done that.” Alaric scrubbed a hand over his face. “The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done… the nightmares are the price I pay, Damon. Nothing is ever going to take them away.”

They were quiet for a long time. Alaric felt himself battling not to squirm. He needed to decompress, and he couldn’t do it sitting next to Damon.

“You should really try to get some sleep.”

“I will. As soon as you tell me what that nightmare was about.”

“I can’t do that. You know I was a SEAL. Ninety percent of what I did on active duty is classified. I can’t. And I wouldn’t if I could. There’s a reason the military needs elite forces, Damon. No one should have to know the shit that happens to keep this country — and other countries — safe.”

And in all honesty, looking back, Alaric thought some of what they’d done was just plain wrong. Not that he could ever admit it.

Damon stayed quiet for a long time. He was apparently not going to leave. Fuck.

“Alright,” he said. “Then let’s talk about something else.”

The sun was a long way off, but the morning, not so much. They were both going to be useless at work.

“Why did you sign up in the first place?”

Alaric thought about it. Yeah, he could talk about this without breaking any rules. He turned to face Damon, ignoring the chill on his skin and briefly contemplating another glass of bourbon.

“When you were 17 years old, what were you into? Comic books? Sports? Porn?”

“Yes,” Damon said. “Or, well. Sports and porn, anyway. Comic books, I could take or leave.”

“I was obsessed with history. From a pretty young age. My mom was educated — rare for a woman her age, but she was. They were both old when I was born. She was in the secretarial pool at Harvard in the late fifties and my dad was a grad student in physics. She had a degree in American history and art history. What they used to call an MRS degree, as if it set you up to be a nice, educated wife before settling into mediocrity. But she was passionate about it. History. I started reading her textbooks when I was too young to realize what a nerd it made me.”

He smiled at the memory.

“And I was _obsessed_ with war. The way it shifted power. I thought there was nothing I could ever want more than to be a war historian, even when I was ten, eleven years old. And then the first Gulf War happened. I mean, I was in middle school, but I was full of so much anger. It fueled that passion. I was twelve years old and I would have signed up, if they’d let me. Instead, I went to Annapolis when I was seventeen. I was close enough to eighteen to get permission, and my parents knew they couldn’t stop me. I joined the Navy the second I was allowed, and then I started SEAL training the first year I applied.”

He got lost in the memories of phase one training, for a moment. The most miserable, and most important, days of his life. At that point, anyway.

“I knew 90% of people dropped out of BUD/s. And I could understand why. It was grueling.” He was way beyond having answered Damon’s question, but he couldn’t stop. “We operated on maybe four, five hours sleep a night. Learned how not to drown while blowing up underwater obstacles. Lined up in rows to literally weight-lift _telephone poles_. They way you dropped out was to ring a bell three times and leave your helmet, with your number painted on, next to the bell. Every day that line of helmets got longer, and every day I thought about adding my own, but I couldn’t. The officers used to berate us, tell us we were never going to make it, that we were humiliating ourselves, that we were the worst bunch of recruits they’d ever seen and we should give up and go home.”

He’d barely noticed Damon reaching out to rest a hand on his forearm, stroking gently, listening to every word.

“We inhaled food, ran on half-full stomachs, swam with our arms linked, did crunches and sit-ups and pull-ups until we wanted to throw up. Or until we did. And then we’d sleep a handful of hours and start again.”

In Alaric’s entire life, he’d never discussed this. Never told his parents what it was like. Never called his best friend Ben to tell him what their training schedule looked like. He had barely even thought about anyone, during phase one. Just surviving.

_The only easy day is yesterday._

Alaric closed his eyes, emotionally exhausted from the effort of talking about it. Thinking about lying in his uncomfortable cot at night and telling himself this was going to be the hardest part of his entire career.

He sighed.

“Phases two and three of SEAL training are easier. I held onto that. I had the idea that we were never going to do anything that taxing, again, ever.”

Alaric had no idea how much time had passed when he felt Damon’s toe poke his leg.

“I just couldn’t have been more wrong. Once we started killing people, that was when it became absolute hell.”

After that, neither of them said a word, until the sun began to rise. Alaric thought he might have slept for a while. He was quite sure that Damon had. Breakfast was quiet, and coffee was plentiful, and they didn’t even bother with the charade of not arriving at the precinct together.

As exhausted as Alaric was, he was grateful for a relatively quiet day of drills.

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

True to his word, because he was always true to his word, Damon was extremely difficult to get rid of.

Whether they got dinner after work or not, Damon showed up at Alaric’s house at some point, most nights, and Alaric stopped startling like a jackrabbit when he did it. Damon insisted that he was never going to understand why Alaric was so compelled to run ten miles a day with everything else they did through the week, and especially resented it when he did it at night. But if he got to the house before Alaric was home, he generally stretched out on the couch with a book or the TV and waited. Alaric fell into the habit of just kissing him and heading up to the shower.

It was progress.

And there were nights when he slept straight through, with Damon in his arms, or plastered against his back, and though they never discussed it, that was progress too. Alaric hadn’t felt so well rested in years. Probably since his first deployment.

It was mostly Damon, no question, but that wasn’t all of it.

 

 

The first time he’d showed up at the VA hospital, for a PTSD support group, he’d been sick with discomfort. There were people in the group who left their homes once a week for a meeting and otherwise could barely function, and that wasn’t Alaric. Many of them were unemployed, some recently separated or divorced, because they were failing so spectacularly to fit into their old lives. One man, Jerry, was there whenever Alaric went, and given his erratic attendance, he had to assume that it meant he was there every day. Jerry had one arm, and no legs, and a rage that made Alaric’s anger seem like a tiny spark against a huge flame.

The group leader, Sam Wilson, good-looking and powerfully built black guy who would have been intimidatingly attractive without the goofy smile seemed to be the only person who could calm him down at all. And it wasn’t by telling him to calm down. It was by reminding him that he had every right to his anger. Though Alaric rarely spoke, he benefited from every one of Sam’s even words.

One night, when the cold weather had definitely settled in (there were Christmas lights all over Atlanta, though it wasn’t quite Thanksgiving yet) Alaric got to the car and realized he didn’t have his phone. He raced back inside, to find Sam had changed into running gear, and was lacing his shoes.

“Hey, man,” he said, nodding at the phone under the chair Alaric had been sitting in.

“Hey,” Alaric said. It might have been the first syllable he had ever aimed directly at Sam.

“You’re a quiet one. Not that it matters.” Sam nodded. “Everyone here does what they can. Just let me know if you need a minute somewhere quieter. Have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Alaric gritted his teeth and escaped as fast as he could manage.

 

 

So it was probably not a coincidence when Alaric showed up at his next meeting in running gear. He awkwardly fumbled with his phone until everyone else had left, and Sam graciously failed to mention it.

“You up for a run?” he asked.

Alaric pretended to consider it, and followed him out the door.

They were well-matched, and somewhere along the line, they got competitive, despite the fact that Sam was closer to Damon’s height than Alaric’s. Weirdly, he seemed taller. Alaric’s lungs complained, and his muscles complained, but his runner’s high was loving every second of it. Sam had some stamina, although he probably hadn’t run drills for five hours already. Regardless, they almost stumbled to the ground outside the hospital, at almost the exact same time (to this day, Alaric would say he won by a hair, and Sam would say the same) and lay staring into the clear night, silent.

“What unit were you with?” Alaric asked.

“Pararescue. You?”

That was such a non-answer that Alaric felt okay keeping his own reply bland.

“SEALs,” he said.

Sam said nothing, for a while.

“There’s a lot of us can’t talk about the specifics, Alaric. Doesn’t mean we can’t talk about the generalities.”

Yeah. He was right.

“Call me Ric. No one calls me Alaric unless I’m in trouble.”

“Deal. Also, we earned a beer,” Sam said, and Alaric couldn’t disagree.

There was nothing about the bar that indicated the sort of clientele they expected, but that didn’t matter. It was the local for everyone in Atlanta who was with emergency services, anyone ex-military; truth be told Alaric balked at going there without the team, in case someone recognized him, but he went, because if nothing else people there knew when to say hello and when to shut the fuck up and avoid eye contact. It was busier than the average Tuesday night, and Alaric nodded earnestly at a few familiar faces, but no one made an attempt to pull him into a conversation. He appreciated it. He and Sam ordered pints of a local stout, and found a corner booth to occupy.

“I’m off the clock,” Sam said.

“I know,” Alaric agreed, with a placating hand up. “Don’t worry.”

“Naw, man. I’m trying to say. I’m off the clock. We ran twelve miles, and now we’re having a drink, so that means, by my thinking, that we’re here as friends.”

Alaric worried at the edge of a coaster. “Are you in the Reserves?” he asked.

Sam shook his head. “I lost my wingman. Tried to keep going after that but I couldn’t. So I came back here. I have a certificate in PT and another in counseling. It’s more than enough to keep me busy without getting dragged back into the thick of it. You?”

Alaric nodded. “I couldn’t just. I mean.” He shook his head. “I can’t stop thinking about the possibility of someone getting hurt when I could make a difference.” He choked. “I think I’m fucked up.”

“Sure you are,” Sam said. “But not as fucked up as you could be. What are you doing now?”

“I head up APD SWAT.”

Sam paused for a moment, and then guffawed.

“So you retired into the quiet, civilian life.”

“Shut up,” Alaric said.

They both stayed quiet for a long moment.

“So what have you got going on other than getting shot at on a regular basis?” Sam asked. “Also FYI, not everyone finds that comforting.”

Alaric tried not to smile. “I’m seeing someone. I’m probably driving them insane, waking at all hours of the night, but they seem to be okay about it. I just. I want to be better for them.”

“Ah, the pronoun game,” Sam said. “Non-binary,or are you just worried I might be homophobic?”

Alaric snickered, or at least, gave a half-snicker. “His name’s Damon. The fact that he’s my partner at APD is almost the least complicated aspect of our lives.”

Sam said nothing.

Alaric leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table.

“I can’t tell him about this. But in the last year, the attrition rate in my team has been… I can’t even think about it. It’s a fucking mess. And I can almost feel it.”

“Man, it doesn’t matter how far you get from your team. Death is death. Grief is grief.”

“Fuck, Sam, I wish that was what I meant.” He leaned back. “I think they’re gonna call me back. I swear to fucking god I can almost hear them talking about who to pull in. I survived for this long. Great. But. I’ll die.”

Sam didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t care about that, before. I treated it like any other risk of the job. But now? I don’t want to go. I wanna stay here and figure out what Damon and I could be to each other. If I leave, I don’t have a choice. I have to end it because I can’t do my job and think about him sitting here in Atlanta wondering if I’m still alive.”

Sam frowned, but nodded.

“Sounds like a call he has to make, man, not you.”

“Yeah.” It was the same circular argument that he’d had with Damon, more than once. Alaric felt as if he didn’t own his own life and never had. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know. It just seems cruel.”

A bartender brought down a bowl of hot chips, and Alaric nodded his thanks, shoving a couple into his mouth like it gave him an excuse not to think anymore.

“You know there’s another option,” Sam said. Quiet, but matter-of-fact. “You could choose him. Choose yourself, choose your life. Step down from the Reserves before they get a chance to pull you back into active duty. You gave a lot of years, and it’s not like you’re sitting on your ass eating bonbons these days. Your job matters, your team matters, and I know it’s not something you really wanna hear right now, or might ever believe — but you matter, too. You can just say you’re done. Keep getting yourself shot at domestically, where you can go home at night to someone who loves you, instead of on the other side of the world.”

Yeah, it was a possibility.

They were silent, for a while, slowly drinking their beers, demolishing the chips. Alaric thought he was probably putting off going home; Damon would know he was upset in no time at all, and demand explanations Alaric wasn’t willing to give him. A discussion he couldn’t force himself to have.

“I should probably go. I clearly need a shower,” he said, pointing at the front of his still half-soaked t-shirt. “Thanks for the run. And the talk.”

He bumped Sam’s fist and hoisted his small duffel.

“I’ll see you in group.”

“I’ll be there,” Sam said. “And tell me you’ll think about it, man. Just think about it. You’re allowed to choose your own life. I did.”

 

 

Alaric had enjoyed an uncharacteristically long shower, letting the heat and water soothe his aching muscles, and he was mostly dry, contemplating a shave while his pores were open. It seemed like a lot of work, though, so he tied a towel around his waist and stepped out of the bathroom. Just as Damon was closing the front door behind him.

His cheeks were pink against pale skin, and his leather jacket, so poorly fitting, hung off his shoulders. His hair was a mess (it would be easy to deduce that it was windy outside, but no. Damon seemed to have a general preference for looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and was ready to roll back into it).

So unbelievably fucking gorgeous. They could have this life. Together. Damon could move in here. That would be good, and it wasn’t like he’d slept at his own place more than once a week in all the months since this had started.

Damon raised his eyebrows, looked Alaric up and down and sighed dramatically. “The outfit would work a lot better without the towel,” he said, quite reasonably, and Alaric grinned lopsidedly at him. “You really have no idea what you look like, do you? Do women not stop you in the street and ask you to father their children? Do strangers ask to take your photograph?”

“Laying it on a little thick,” Alaric said, but he didn’t argue. True or not, Damon meant it. “Hey, my eyes are up here,” he added, trying to sound offended and failing.

Damon threw an arm over Alaric’s shoulder, and cradled his face in his other hand, pulling him close enough to kiss. Hungry, messy. Beautiful. Pressing closer to Alaric, and then stopping, breathless. Their foreheads rested together, for a moment, and Damon’s pupils were huge and dark.

“I love you,” Alaric said, though he fumbled it, partially swallowing the last syllable. He was shaking. Pretty sure he hadn’t said that to anyone since his parents had died.

Damon cocked his head gave half a smile. “I didn’t catch that. You’re probably going to need to say it louder.”

“I love you.” The second time, it came out smoother, more confident, and Damon tossed his jacket onto the couch and pulled his t-shirt over his head. “I love you, I love you. I fucking love you, and I’m glad you, uh…”

“Wore you down?”

“I wouldn’t have put it that way.”

Damon’s shoes were abandoned at the bottom of the staircase, and Alaric was more or less hauling him up the stairs. The dam had broken. It felt good to say it. _I love you_ , _I love you_ , against every part of Damon’s skin. He pushed Damon onto the bed and worked his fly open, stripping the jeans (fuck, maybe turpentine would have been a more efficient option) off his hips and tossing them aside. Damon scrambled on the bed, getting his head on the pillow, and wrapped himself around Alaric’s body, biting his lower lip and groaning deliciously.

“Ugh, whatever happened today needs to happen more often,” he said, as Alaric got his hands around both of their cocks and began a maddening, firm stroke. “Seriously.”

There was something different between them, and it wasn’t just those little words. It was something different. The thought of stepping down from the Reserves had lit a fire in Alaric, and all he could think about now was committing to his actual life, at last. Committing to Damon. This was it. This was what he wanted. As soon as he’d stepped down, Alaric was going to ask him to move in.

“I just… want you. Want this. Us. Together. I’m sick of being on the fence. The fence sucks. The fence is such a waste of time, Damon, I’m done with it.”

“Agreed.” Damon’s voice sounded wrecked. “The fence is stupid. I’ve never liked fences.”

“Yeah, well, you have an issue with boundaries in general,” Alaric sniped back, and Damon came, hard, Alaric following moments later.

Not that they were done. Alaric was in the mood to let this last, kiss Damon everywhere, make him purr, and then fuck him. At least for the second round, they’d last longer than a few minutes.

“Only with you,” he answered, smugly.

Alaric lay slumped over Damon’s body, ignoring the sticky mess, nuzzling into his shoulder and neck.

“No, but seriously. I’m all for declarations of love — by the way, for the record, I love you, too, and I think I have since three minutes after we met.”

“You just like my ass in cargos.” But Alaric was smiling.

“That’s only part of it. My point is, this is not very you. I mean, I like it. A lot. But it’s not very you — I generally have to drag you kicking and screaming across every inch of scary unmapped relationship space, and you just steamrolled over what I assumed would be weeks of the aforementioned kicking and screaming.”

“Aforementioned? Did someone buy you a word-a-day calendar?”

“I was being eloquent, dick. So are you going to tell me what happened?”

Alaric pushed himself up onto one elbow. “You know that group thing I go to at the hospital?” Damon said nothing, only nodded, because he knew pressing Alaric for details of those things shut him down fast; Alaric didn’t think he could bring himself to say that he’d never once spoken in front of the group, too afraid that his so-called trauma wasn’t as bad as anyone else’s. The PTSD game. You can’t be in a bad way if someone has it worse. You bargain. _I can survive nightmares and survivor’s guilt, because that guy has no legs. I can force myself not to hit the ground when a car backfires because that woman is never getting out of her wheelchair_.

“I went for a run with the guy who leads it, and we went and got a beer after, talked a bit.” He wasn’t going to tell Damon about his premonition of getting pulled back in, he couldn’t.

“I’m getting jealous and territorial here, just so you know. Where does he live? Can I take him in a fight?”

“Shut up. The point is, he, uh… he pointed out that I could actually leave the Reserves.”

Damon was silent. Not just silent, but _still_ , deer-in-the-headlights still, the hand that had been rubbing circles on Alaric’s shoulder freezing.

“Leave the Reserves?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, but why?”

“I thought you’d be happy.” Alaric sat up, and Damon followed suit, grabbing the tissue box from the nightstand and wiping down his stomach. Alaric did the same.

“Oh, I’m happy. I am very happy, because _screw_ annual training, and _e_ ** _spec_** _ially_ screw the gigantic piano hovering over our heads, waiting for a chance to fall. The piano being a metaphor for you getting hauled back overseas, obviously. So yes. I’m happy. Ecstatically happy.” He didn’t sound happy. He sounded pissed, and his eyebrows looked like a pair of fat, angry caterpillars, getting ready to fight each other.

“So?”

“So I asked you why you’re quitting, and I want an answer. Because if you’re quitting for me, one day you’re gonna hate me for it, and I’d rather live under the shadow of a cartoon piano than put up with that.”

“No, Damon. I mean, yes, but no. I’m _tired_. I hate the piano, too, and I hate being half-invested in my life. I hate the fence. I… I’m doing it for us, and for me, and because… yeah, I get it, you’ve had to pull me along every step of the way, and you shouldn’t have to. I love you, Damon. I’m in love with you. I’m one hundred percent in this with you. We have a shot at building a life, here, and I can’t do that sitting with this much uncertainty. So. I’ve made a decision, and I’ll never resent you for it. I swear.”

Damon leaned closer. Not for a kiss; studying Alaric’s face, looking for any hesitation or the smallest hint of a lie. Alaric knew he’d find none.

“Ugh,” Damon said. “Fuck.” He threw his arms around Alaric’s neck, and pulled him back down onto the bed. “God, you’re so much hard work. It’s a good thing you’re smoking hot and great in the sack, or I’d be out of here so fast.”

Alaric could hear the smile in his voice, and the relief.

“When?”

“I’ll try to get someone to see me before Christmas. Kind of looking forward to something resembling a normal holiday. And an embarrassingly romantic New Year’s Eve.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“Well, there’s the party, assuming no bad guys decide to break into a bank that night. But I thought we could sneak away early and ring in the new year naked.”

“I’m definitely holding you to _that_ ,” Damon purred, and his hands began to roam Alaric’s body again.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a tough case and an adrenaline overdose, Damon calls Alaric on his shit.

December was never a very good month. Lots of shopping meant larger hauls of cash, which was like catnip for people fond of heavy artillery and breaking the law. Halfway through a training exercise which everyone was enjoying even less than usual (it was raining, after all, but that was sort of the point; Alaric’s guys needed to be ready no matter how bad the weather. He would have cheerfully taken them to Maine to do some training in the snow but doubted anyone would bankroll that) they got a call about a serious standoff in a mall. In under ten minutes, they were rolling out with serious faces, checking weapons and ammo and loading up on flashbangs. Once they’d parked the SWAT van close behind the APD vehicles, Alaric jogged across to where the captain of the department was coordinating with a hostage response team and what looked like half the department. He was a good man. Tall, black, built like a tank, and generally affable, if easily pissed off.

“What have we got?” Alaric asked, as Damon pulled up beside him. The Captain glanced at Damon. There had been a few rumblings about fraternization, but their performance as a team — and their performance as a partnership — hadn’t slipped an inch, so no one was prepared to get into that kind of a loser’s fight. The Captain shook his head.

“We don’t know. What we do know is there’s a hostage situation somewhere on the ground floor, in one of the big department stores. We don’t know which one, let alone where, because the suspects managed to disable the security cameras. We think it’s an eight-man team — they disabled the crews from two armored cars and stole them. But everything went to hell right after that, because one of the guards managed to shoot out one of the tires, and the armored cars crashed. Now we’ve got a guy in the van out the front of the mall waving a gun at anyone who comes near him…”

Alaric turned to Damon. “Get Liv, find a couple of good vantage points and wait for my go.”

Damon nodded crisply and jogged back towards the van, and moments later, Jeremy and Matt were at Alaric’s elbow, listening.

“The other van is inside, and we’ve got at least two guys either on or in it. That probably leaves five, and at least two of them are injured. But they’ve got a lot of firepower, and one of those department stores carries weapons and ammo. Locked up, but if they really wanted to get in, they could. They know what they’re doing.”

“Right. Where are we on getting eyes in there?”

“I’ve got a comms specialist trying to come up with something. They took the phones off the hostages. Unfortunately, though a lot of people ran and got away pretty fast, there are probably people all over the mall. Scared, upset, and liable to do something really stupid.”

As people were, when faced with dying a week before Christmas. Funny, that.

“Right. And the HRT?”

“Can’t do a thing until we have some kind of idea what we’ve got in there. I’m gonna be straight with you, lieutenant. My gut instinct is just to send you in there and let you do your thing. But I won’t do it until we know something, anything more than we do now. You got twelve?”

“Yes sir,” Alaric said. “Locked and loaded. Snipers getting into position. If they have to take out the guy out the front to let us get in, they’ll do it, on my go. You want to try negotiating with him first?”

The Captain handed Alaric the bullhorn with a flourish.

“This is Lieutenant Alaric Saltzman of Atlanta PD SWAT. I’m gonna make a strong recommendation that you put your gun down and come quietly before our snipers get into position.”

The guy shouted back. “No way, man. This is my third strike. Only way I’m leaving is with safe passage out of here and no one on my tail.”

Alaric sighed. “You’ve got exactly one chance, then,” he said, into the bullhorn. “Tell us who your friends are and we might be able to negotiate.”

“Yeah, I hear Atlanta PD are always looking to negotiate with criminals. They play real nice. So what sort of deal, huh? Immunity, or just a nice east-facing cell? Get me transport out of here or I’m not saying another word.”

As if to prove his point, he stuck his arm out the window and fired off a few rounds. Everyone ducked, but the shots were wild, going nowhere near anyone. Across the road, a window smashed, and Alaric cursed his assumption.

He grabbed a uniformed officer. “Go make sure that didn’t hit anyone in those offices,” he said, and the man nodded. Hunched down low, he ran across the road. Alaric could just picture people standing by the window, gawking, instead of being smart and getting to the other side of the building.

“You’re not helping your case right now,” Alaric said. “I can’t make any promises except this one; I trained both these snipers myself, and I could shoot a tick off a dog at five hundred feet, which means they can too. If you don’t toss your gun and come out with your hands up, you’ll be leaving here in a body bag. Am I being clear?”

“Crystal. And I’m telling you that unless I’ve got a signed immunity deal, I’m not taking a step out of this van.”

Alaric switch on his comms unit. “Liv, you got a shot?”

“No,” she said. “I’m gonna have to go somewhere else. But I have a good view of the second floor. Looks like there’s a big group of civilians holing up in the Build-a-Bear. They don’t look like they’re planning anything stupid. Some of them are on phones.”

Okay, so there was a chance they could get eyes on the place from inside. If they could get one of those people’s identities, and ask them to help.

“Damon, you got a shot?”

“I do. It’s perfect. Perfect right now. Make the call?”

Alaric glanced at the Captain. He nodded.

“Last chance,” Alaric said. “Come out with your hands up and you might be out of jail before you turn sixty.”

The door of the van opened, and a couple of uniforms began to stand. Still low, still crouched, but they were ready to take him in.

There was a sudden disturbance across the street, and two paramedics bolted into the office block. The Captain turned to Alaric, muting his comms for a moment.

“He hit someone. It doesn’t look good.”

“Put your weapon down,” Alaric said again. “Hands behind your head. Interlace your fingers.”

The next few moments seemed to move incredibly slowly. The man looked up at the window he’d shot out, and put it all together in his head. He raised his gun and pointed it straight at Alaric. Alaric didn’t remember taking the shot, or even raising his firearm. It was just instinct. Two bullets to the center mass and the man was on the ground, dead.

“He didn’t want to make it out of this. More scared of jail than of dying.”

“Yeah, I know,” Alaric told the captain. “I’m fine.” He wasn’t, but it would do. “Alright, SWAT — get in and see what you can do about mapping out the beginning of the mall. Cameras on. Liv, stay where you are. Let us know if anything changes upstairs. Damon, come in. You’re needed.

“Get your comms guy to get our camera feeds online,” Alaric told the captain. “Get a couple more ambulances, if you can, because if there’ve already been shots fired we probably have wounded hostages.”

Alaric followed his team to what was once the front of the mall and was now just broken glass and a twisted frame, the confused servos of the automatic doors buzzing over their heads.

“Okay, team…”

“Let me guess. Maintain situational awareness?” Tyler said. “Watch each other’s backs?”

“Stop being cute. Let’s go.”

In formation, taking a few yards at a time, the team moved through the front section of the mall, stopping when they found the second van. Empty, now, doors hanging open.

“You seeing this?” Alaric asked the captain.

“Yeah, I got you. We’re looking for a security guard off duty who can advise about the layout and maybe get the cameras back on.”

“Copy.”

Alaric waved the team against the wall of a department store. A handful of gestures had five crossing the plaza to a second one. He and the other five slipped through racks of women’s clothing until he raised a hand. There were at least thirty people lying on their stomachs. One made eye contact, and Alaric held a finger to his lip, but she stood up, looking perfectly confident.

“They’re here,” she called out to the others. “We were told to wait for the cops. They’ve got at least a ten-minute head start.”

Alaric swore under his breath.

“Send the uniforms in to process the scene,” he said, over comms. And then, to the woman, and the others who were standing up, now, looking shaken, “which way did they go?”

She pointed in the direction of the dressing rooms. “There’s an entry into the restricted areas back there,” she said. “Security corridors, offices upstairs, and downstairs leads to the loading bays. There were five of them.”

Five. One dead in the front, and two unaccounted for. Fuck. Alaric swore again, but the woman tossed him her phone. “I got a couple of photos. When they asked for my phone I gave them my work one.”

Tough woman, and smart. Alaric was impressed.

There was a commotion outside, and shouting over his comms unit, and they were all instantly alert.

“Shots fired, shots fired,” the captain was shouting. Alaric turned around and tore in the direction of the entry. “They’re leaving in a dark late model SUV.”

“We still have two unaccounted for,” Alaric was shouting, with Damon hot on his heels. “Which way are they heading?”

“West. We’ve got three cars out of commission.”

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. Alaric shouted at Damon. “You drive. Anything you can get your hands on.”

Moments later, they were tearing in the direction of the SUV, which was made significantly more difficult by some serious tactical driving that had other cars spilling left and right off the road.

The phone rang.

“Talk to me,” Alaric barked.

“We’ve got one dead. Looks like he bled out behind the cash register. One to find. We got an ID off that cell photo; Darius Madden, aka Elroy James, aka ––”

“Aka Dennis Milroy,” Alaric growled, with gritted teeth. “We need roadblocks before there’s a pile-up out here. They’re shooting at cars. I’m gonna try to shoot out their tires.”

“Are you fucking insane?” Damon said. “There’s backup on the way.” He appeared to object to Alaric positioning himself to hang out the window. “You’ll get yourself killed, or worse.”

“Get closer,” Alaric answered, ignoring him. “We have to stop them before everybody _else_ gets killed.”

“No fucking way. I’m pulling over, you idiot. I’m not interested in your suicide mission.”

“Get closer or I’ll make sure you regret it,” Alaric growled, knowing full well his partner wouldn’t do that to him.

There was an exchange of gunfire, and Alaric felt a blossom of pain against his arm. Just a graze, he was fine. But apparently, he was also transparent, because Damon pulled him back into the car.

“Stop. Just stop. Let APD do their jobs. This doesn’t feel exactly tactical.” Damon backed off the accelerator. Alaric was going to shoot him.

Luckily, his timing was impeccable.

As they reached the turnpike, they saw a truck ease into the turn. It was impossible to see what had happened in the seconds after that, but the SUV had to have been clipped, because it did a flip mid-air, and rolled three or four times, landing on its side. The traffic had backed off, by then, but Damon still had to throw on the brakes and slide to a stop to avoid hitting the truck, which was desperately trying to avoid toppling over.

They were both out of the car and running for the SUV before either had time to speak, Alaric with his AR-15 and Damon with his Kel-Tek, shouting for anyone who could move to come out with their hands up.

One man was on his stomach, not moving, a few yards from the SUV. Alaric checked for a pulse; it was there. “We need back-up at this location. And ambulances,” he said, moving closer to the SUV. Two of the men were trapped in their seatbelts, and the other two were crumpled in the back seat.

“One dead in the back,” Damon said. “The other three are alive. Who’s Dennis Milroy?”

The man trapped in the passenger seat in the front — who had presumably been doing all the shooting — shot Alaric a look of pure loathing.

“He’s the son of a bitch who shot my last partner,” Alaric said, reaching for the loose weapons in the SUV.

“How’s the old bastard doing? Still can’t believe I missed that shot,” Milroy said, blood dripping from his mouth.

“He’s in Alabama, getting fat and watching his grandchildren grow up. On a full pension, plus benefits. I’m sure he’d say thanks, if he could, right after he kicked you in the face. What do you say, Damon? Should I kick him in the face? His word against ours.”

Damon shrugged, knowing full well Alaric would never do it. “All the same to me.”

The distant sirens were getting closer. “Saved by the bell,” Alaric said. “Enjoy prison. I hear SuperMax is nice this time of year.” He patted Milroy’s face. “I’ll come visit sometime.”

He forced himself to walk away, before his rifle _accidentally_ discharged.

“You know, you can be really scary when you want to be,” Damon said, as they headed back towards the road, handing over the surrendered weapons to APD. “I’m never sure if you’re serious or not.”

Alaric shrugged.

“I’ve got enough on my conscience without making things worse. We need to check all of these cars for anyone who’s hurt. I’ll start with the truck.”

 

 

It was a couple of hours before they regrouped back at the mall; by some miracle, no drivers on the road had been severely injured, though there was some whiplash and a couple of suspected concussions. Four of the men in the SUV were in hospital, and one wasn’t expected to make it.

The topic of the day was; where the hell was the eighth guy?

APD had searched the entire mall, and hadn’t found him. Or any evidence that he’d ever been there. They would have assumed the initial intel was bad, except a snippet of video from a woman’s phone had shown clearly that eight guys had been spread across the two vans for at least the first couple of minutes. The search grid had been expanded to the security corridors, with no luck, and they’d been forced to assume the guy had gotten away.

“We’ll find him,” the captain said. “Bound to be some trace. Where’s the evidence van? They’re not done, yet, surely.”

Alaric felt a prickle down his back.

“Activate the GPS,” he said, and he and Damon were jumping into another car before he even realized what he was thinking.

“Son of a bitch,” Alaric kept grumbling, under his breath, waiting to get the van’s coordinates.

By the time they found the van, it was empty. Half of the money had been in it, the other half on the side of the road by the toppled SUV. A man was standing on the side of the road, a black eye already beginning to form, bleeding from a split lip. He leaned against the squad car.

“It’s a dark green Camry, about ten years old. Go. Go!”

Another few blocks and they’d found it. The driver panicked and plowed into the front yard of an expensive-looking house. He knew he was fucked. He didn’t even bother trying to take the money as he climbed out and ran, down an alley, Alaric and Damon both in pursuit. Alaric didn’t even know where they were, pretty soon, jumping fences and ignoring Damon’s yelling to wait for backup before the guy got off a lucky shot. If he disappeared now he’d steal another car, and could be halfway to Texas before they saw him again.

Alaric was vaguely aware that the graze on his arm had opened up and he was bleeding pretty heavily, but for as long as adrenaline was on his side, he wasn’t slowing down. Through six back yards, eight, not even sure anymore how many dogs he’d dodged.

He could feel his heart racing, the thrill of the hunt taking over. Focused in a way he normally wasn’t, even as the guy stopped a couple of times to shoot at him. Eventually the guy ran out of ammo and threw his gun at Alaric, missing him by a very narrow margin of about eight feet (wow, loser).

Across another road, narrowly avoiding a couple of moms doing the after-school pickup, and Alaric finally flattened him to the ground outside a school fence.

“If I can find any extra charges relating to trespassing, I’ll pin them on you, just so you know. And you scared a couple of dogs. That’s animal cruelty.” He wrenched the man’s arms behind his back, and cuffed him, as Damon arrived moments behind them.

“I’m teaching you to spell _back-up_ ,” Damon said. “This is not our job. This is one of those things the actual police are supposed to do, you know, chase suspects through obstacle courses.” But he helped Alaric to frog-march the guy back towards the road, while Alaric called in their position.

“What do you think I train us for? SWAT stands for special weapons and _tactics_. Sometimes, tactics involve a chase on foot that most of those guys couldn’t handle.”

“And you’re _bl_ ** _eed_** _ing again_ , which is good. I was just thinking yesterday that you don’t have enough scars.”

Alaric shot him a sly grin, because he knew Damon liked his scars far too much.

He had to admit, though, he was suddenly feeling less than great. The adrenaline had worn off, and his arms burned and ached, and he was reasonably sure he’d done some interesting things to a muscle in his back. Definitely a good night for a long soak in the tub. If Damon wasn’t still pissed later, maybe he’d join him.

 

 

A couple of hours at the hospital, a couple — maybe more than a couple — of drinks with the team, along with a good few handfuls of APD officers and a half-dozen paramedics and Damon and Alaric made their excuses. No one bothered to pretend they didn’t know what was going on. No one was dumb enough to say anything to their faces, so they really didn’t care. They were both over the limit, so they hailed a cab and returned to Alaric’s house.

The silence that set in after they left the bar didn’t really bother Alaric — they were both tired — until Alaric noticed that Damon was staring out the window with his arms crossed over his chest.

They should have eaten something more substantial at the bar, Alaric thought, his head swimming slightly and his stomach complaining loudly.

He paid for the taxi, and they limped up to the house, the day’s exertions getting the better of them. Damon still seemed somber as Alaric unlocked the door. Thinking about something.

“You alright?” Alaric said as he flicked the light switch.

“Yep. Is there anything to eat?”

There was always something to eat. Alaric didn’t bother to say so when Damon opened the fridge and started rummaging for something he could stick in the microwave.

“Damon? You’re not actually pissed at me for doing my goddamn job, right?”

Damon turned, and Alaric saw the fire in his eyes.

“Not pissed,” Damon said, letting his eyes flick to Alaric’s mouth.

Alaric moved closer, and Damon let himself be pulled in tight. Alaric was gratified to feel his cock twitch, as their hips met. “Apparently not. So?”

But Damon shrugged it off, slipping out of Alaric’s arms in a very uncharacteristic move and returning to the food. Alright. Sometimes he seemed to need time to get his thoughts together. Alaric didn’t probe further.

In the downstairs bathroom, there was a spa bath. It was small, but Alaric had pulled apart the guts and restored it all in the early days of his renovations, knowing how good it was for sore muscles. He rarely used it, mostly because it took so long to fill up that he couldn’t bring himself to bother, at the sorts of times when he knew he might benefit, but he removed the cover and started to fill it now, while Damon fiddled with leftovers. Silently, they divided up a fairly odd combination of food onto a couple of plates, and sat at Alaric’s dining table. Part of the way through the meal Alaric checked the spa. He figured it should be full by the time they were done.

“Spa?” Damon said. “I was starting to think that thing ruined your Spartan aesthetic and you pretended not to know it was there.”

“It speaks,” Alaric said drolly, and then shrugged. “I don’t, very often, but I think we deserve it. Don’t you? You must be as sore as I am.”

Damon nodded.

“And I’m not sure it’s fair to peg my aesthetic as Spartan when I live in a four-bedroom house.”

“Since you only use about ten percent of it, I think it’s fair. One day you’ll tell me why the hell you thought you needed something this big.”

Alaric crossed the room to pull a framed photograph out of a drawer. He’d broken the glass a few months back, but only got as far as removing the shards. He put it on the table in front of Damon, before taking the empty plates back to the kitchen.

The photograph was one Alaric had taken the day he paid a deposit on the house. The front yard was a mess of dead scrubs, the house itself was in need of painting, and several windows were boarded up. Alaric didn’t bother saying the inside was almost as bad.

“I didn’t need the space,” he said. “I needed the work.”

He couldn’t understand the flash of pain over Damon’s eyes, and doubted Damon would explain it to him, so he didn’t ask. It wasn’t until they were in the spa, legs tangled, that Damon finally started to speak.

“It’s days like this you actually feel alive, isn’t it?” he asked. His voice sounded tired, but curious. And oddly resigned, but resigned to what, Alaric had no idea.

“What do you mean?”

“You hate easy cases.”

Alaric tensed. “No, I don’t.” But yes, he did? Like he’d told Sam, he was a little fucked up, and he knew it. “No, I don’t like people getting hurt.”

“But the rest of it, you love. Watching you this afternoon, you’ve never looked more alive. Not even with me. I see you like that, and I can see you in camo gear running across hostile territory, or jumping out of a plane, driven by nothing but adrenaline for days at a time until you have some high-value target hog-tied in a helicopter and you can tick another thing off your list. You can’t function without someone shooting at you, and don’t deny it.”

Alaric reached across the spa, the bubbling water and the rich white lather of bath bubbles on the top, and pulled Damon into his lap. Straddling his legs. He wrapped his arms around Damon’s body.

“It’s not like that,” he said.

“I think it’s exactly like that. And I think that’s why you haven’t gone to visit your little army buddies to discuss your imminent retirement.”

“It’s Navy, Damon.”

“I know. But notice how you corrected me on that, instead of the reason why you haven’t gone to see someone? You’re not going to quit. I can feel it. You like the _idea_ of me, us, but you have to be busy. You moved here and spent years renovating this place instead of actually slowing down. When was the last time you ate pizza on the couch in your underwear in front of the TV?”

Alaric tried to laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever done that, but the weekend is coming up, if you want to teach me.”

“Thanks for taking me seriously,” Damon said. “That helps sell the whole commitment thing _very_ very nicely. Fuck you.”

“Hey, you know, you didn’t exactly sit on your ass and wait for me to come back today. You chased us as well. You don’t exactly enjoy the sedate life yourself.” He didn’t even object when Damon crawled out of his lap and out of the spa.

“It’s my job. And I don’t mind doing my job, because it’s the right thing to do, and I have family blood to atone for. But in the end, when I go home? That’s when I’m me. Take a shower, wash the day off. And I’d like to do it with someone who’d rather be here with me than getting shot at on the other side of the world.”

He’d barely wrapped his towel around his body when he left the bathroom, and Alaric rubbed his hands over his face, before sinking deeper into the water.

His muscles needed a little more time, and so did Damon.

Besides, Damon had a point, and Alaric had to acknowledge there was a huge difference between making a decision, and enacting it.

 

 

Twenty minutes later, he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Damon was already under the covers, pretending to be asleep. Alaric opened the closet door, and pulled out his dress whites, removing the suit bag to let it air overnight.

Damon sat up. He still looked pissed, but now he looked pissed and hopeful, which was an improvement. Alaric tossed his towel onto a chair, and slipped under the blankets, climbing over Damon’s body and kissing him roughly.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow morning. I’ll go. I swear.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! I may be a bit quiet the next couple of weeks, as I'll be pretty busy at work.  
> Also, if you want to say hi on tumblr, you can usually find me at [fuckyoupbk](http://fuckyoupbk.tumblr.com).
> 
> Also, a heads-up; I have a couple of chapters coming up which are essentially Hawaii Five-O crossovers. I'm not tagging the crossover because it's only a couple of chapters. But I will let you know which, specifically, and provide links to spoiler/recaps for anyone who really doesn't want to read crossover chapters.
> 
> PS. Can you believe I haven't done anything about this title? I feel like it's stuck, now. xD


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too late.

Damon headed in to APD late, along with the rest of the team; they had various doctors to visit, a couple of non-critical injuries, and Jeremy’s shoulder was acting up. Besides, the general unwritten rule was that after a rough day, everyone was on call, and expected to show up when they showed up. After a long afternoon securing the crime scene and helping the evidence collection boys, everyone had been pretty ragged, even before they drank themselves into an early weekend hangover. Damon alone was smug, sober and gloriously free of a headache, as he swanned into the precinct and headed for the locker room, where everyone else was some variety or other of ‘sorry wreck’. Liv, alone immune to hangovers, was sitting on the bench, ignoring the semi-nudity around her and apparently playing angry birds on her phone.

“Where’s our fearless leader?” she asked.

Damon smirked. “How should I know? I’m not his girlfriend.”

He ignored all the rolled eyes. He hadn’t lied, after all.

“He’s busy. Doing Ric things. And I quote, we’ve got reports to write. He said I should make his stern face when I tell you all that, but he’s hard to imitate without imagining I’m trying to shit a grenade, and that’s not a good look for many people. So.” He batted his eyelashes.

It was going to be a very good day, a better night and the perfect weekend. He was planning to blow Alaric in the car, and then keep him in bed most of Saturday and Sunday, ideally pausing in their carnal pursuits for long enough to decorate a Christmas tree while Damon dropped hints about a June wedding. Add eggnog and a couple of steaks, maybe even some of those green ‘vegetable’ things Alaric swore by (Damon was pretty sure they were called _vegetables_ ). He’d even sit through an episode of that stupid serial killer documentary series if Alaric would play with his hair.

But Alaric never showed up at the precinct.

The team started to drift out around four, everyone smart enough not to ask Damon any questions, as he was pretty sure he was looking green. Alaric wasn’t answering his phone. Damon focused on the paperwork in front of him like he never had before, and pulled up to a drive-through liquor store for the bottle of Jack Daniels he was pretty sure he was going to need later. He parked on the street outside Alaric’s house and let himself in, wondering if six o’clock was too early for hard liquor.

Alaric arrived half an hour later, still in his dress whites, and with a look on his face that combined misery and guilt in a way that told Damon that the white picket dreams he’d been wallowing in for the last week or so were about to be steamrolled.

“What did you do?” he asked. “I mean, I would have liked to take a moment to see if I could get you to fuck me in that uniform, since you _won’t_ be needing it anymore and therefore _don’t_ have to worry about stains. But somehow from the look on your face, that’s off the cards. _What did you do?_ ”

Alaric looked longingly at the couch, and went to the kitchen for a couple of glasses. He poured two very generous measures of the bourbon, and sipped one, sitting hunched and… ugh, Damon wanted to be pissed, but he couldn’t, because Alaric looked heartbroken.

“What. Did. You. **_Do_**.”

“I didn’t do anything, Damon. I got in, I asked to see the CO… and when I got there, he thanked me for coming, said he didn’t think I’d be able to make it in that quickly.”

“ _No_.”

Like he could stop what was coming if he denied it hard enough.

“My team’s taken a lot of hits in the last few months, Damon. Lost a lot of guys. They’re calling us in. A lot of us. It’s not just me.” Alaric’s voice was soft and it sounded like he was trying to convince himself, as much as anyone else.

“And what did he say when you told him you were there to quit the stupid Navy and never get in the water again? Have a life? Was he disappointed?”

Alaric’s face was a mask. “Don’t, Damon. I couldn’t do it. You know I couldn’t. Not after that. It wouldn’t have made a difference if I did. It takes months to process out, and by then, I’ll have been back in the field for…” He trailed off. “There’s nothing I can do. Do you understand? Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Damon threw his glass at the wall (it didn’t fucking break, just splashed everywhere and rolled on the ground like it was joining the rest of the world in fucking with him), and stood up, pacing. His head hurt, his eyes were throbbing, his heart was tearing apart. “Bullshit. We can leave. Go to Canada. You can fake an injury. Hell, I’ll shoot you. Please, let me shoot you. Right now I’d genuinely enjoy it. Would the shoulder do it? Foot?”

“Hey. There are people over there dying, Damon. Good people.” Now he sounded pissed.

“We shouldn’t even _be_ there!”

“Oh, we shouldn’t? We should hear about child soldiers on the news at night and throw up our hands at the humanity of it all? About people being stoned for death for demanding basic human rights?”

“Oh, someone enjoyed the kool-aid at boot camp a little too much. Oil, Ric, it’s about oil.”

“Maybe to some. But to the men on the ground, it’s about a hell of a lot more than that.”

“Great. So I get to sit around waiting to hear you’re dead or injured for how long, exactly? A year? Two? Fuck you, Ric.”

“No,” Alaric said, shaking his head. “No, forget that. I’ve told you before. I won’t do that to anyone. Look, we have a couple of weeks. I leave for San Diego on the third. Can we just enjoy the time we’ve got left?”

“And again I say, fuck yoo _ooooo_ ** _oou_** _u_ uu. You _don’t_ get to decide for me. No, you…”

Damon dropped helplessly onto the couch, feeling the tears run over his cheek, so hot they felt like rivers of acid. He scratched through his hair. This was exactly the sort of time when he needed to be held. Alaric was supposed to know that. Alaric was supposed to see it, but he was staring into space, clutching his glass like a lifeline when he should have been clutching Damon.

They were quiet for a while. And still not touching, which was fucking horrible. The suit Damon had found so appealing that morning looked like nothing more or less than a prison uniform, now. Alaric sipped his bourbon, and Damon swigged from the bottle, pausing once to top Alaric’s glass up. He needed to work up a head of steam to continue his rant, but for the moment, he was spent.

Time passed; half an hour, an hour, and they were still a foot apart on the couch. It started to rain, which felt appropriate. Damon tested out a thousand questions in his mind before settling on one.

“Do you _want_ to go?”

“No,” Alaric said. “But I will. Because it’s the right thing to do. Hey, they promoted me. I’ll be running a platoon.” He didn’t sound very excited.

“Oh, great. Unless that means you’ll be sitting safely in a naval base somewhere telling people what to do over a comms unit, that’s not exactly something I feel like celebrating.”

“I lead from the front, Damon. You should know that better than anyone.”

“I know that’s the position where you’re more likely to get shot, too. See? I’m smart.”

Alaric wiped his eyes.

“You said you loved me,” Damon said. He didn’t care how petty it sounded.

“I do. I love you. So fucking much. This is killing me.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

“I love you too much to do that to you.” He stood up. “You want to get some food delivered? I’m starving, and I need to get out of this fucking uniform.” He didn’t make eye contact before he headed up the stairs, heavy on his feet. Reluctant, or exhausted, or most likely, both.

By the time Alaric was back, wearing jeans and a henley (fuck him for that, too, he knew Damon loved that fucking shirt) he’d washed his face with cold water, and his expression was like a mask. He smiled at Damon, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Damon wondered if he’d ever see a real smile from him again. If he’d ever see Alaric again. Asshole. _Asshole!_ They _could_ go to Canada. Mexico. Anywhere. The wisdom of hearing that people kept getting killed or worse and deciding ‘well, I’d better go be where _that’s_ happening’ wasn’t something Damon could understand at all.

“Pizza’s on the way,” he said, without looking up. Alaric sat on the couch beside him, and reached out. For a moment, Damon thought he was going to pull his hand away before he even made contact, but he cupped the side of Damon’s jaw, running a thumb over his cheek.

Damon wanted to lash out, smack his hand away. But it seemed like a waste, when they were about to be separated for… fuck even knew. Longer than they’d been together. A lot longer.

For the first time in years, Damon missed his brother. This seemed like a good time to do the brotherly thing and get horribly drunk together.

He was climbing across Alaric’s body, holding him tight, before he really registered what he was doing, tucking his face up against Alaric’s collarbone. Alaric held tight, arms like steel cables around Damon’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish this hadn’t happened. But I won’t be a fugitive. I won’t run from this.”

“Then I’ll wait. And if you tell me not to, I’ll punch you in the jaw, GI Joe, because that’s not your decision to make. It’s mine.”

Alaric said nothing, just kissed his hair.

 

 

The weekend was not what Damon had planned. Christmas tree was a bust, though Alaric consented to some mistletoe and fairy lights. He ran eight miles, twice a day, and whether it was because he needed to clear his head or because he was preparing to go back to hell, Damon didn’t know and couldn’t bring himself to ask. He was affectionate, but quiet, and it was all Damon could do not to punch him, sometimes.

“You think it’s too late to see if everyone — or some of them — would come for Christmas?”

Damon shrugged. “Most people probably have plans, but if you want to, we can try.”

“There’s always New Year’s. What about you, are…”

“If you ask me if I’m spending Christmas with you I will shoot you in the face. I think I’ve made it clear I’m not going anywhere. I’m still debating throwing you in a shipping container and hauling you off to Toronto.”

He was slicing green beans (without complaint, because he was magnanimous and self-sacrificing and trying relatively hard to avoid fighting too much), and Alaric slipped his arms around him.

“Will you tell people about me? Us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, cute, Saltzman. Very cute. Close quarters, everyone knows each other’s secrets, the boys are passing around photos of their wives and girlfriends and kids. Will you tell them about me?”

Alaric backed off, and went to the fridge to find a rub-on sauce for the steaks. “Just because _don’t ask don’t tell_ was repealed doesn’t mean the Navy is suddenly less homophobic, no matter what the uniform implies. Or the Village People. I’ve never been that open with people, and now I’ll be commanding them, it’s even more important to keep a little barrier up. Someone I was close to? Sure. But I don’t wanna take attitude, let along friendly fire or inadequate backup, because someone has a problem with me.”

When he put it like that, it was understandable, but it still stung. Damon chopped the beans a little bit more viciously than he had been before, and threw them into the salad.

“Damon,” Alaric said, quietly, after he’d come in from putting the steaks on the grill. “We’ve got two weeks. Do you want to spend them being angry at me?”

Damon took his hands off the tomato and the knife and rested them heavily on the edge of the counter.

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

“Then please. Don’t. I haven’t even left and I miss you already.”

They stood in the kitchen, holding each other close and tight, and Damon let himself melt into the touch. Two weeks. What could they do in two weeks?

Turned out, they could do plenty.

 

 

Listening to Alaric tell the team he was leaving, that was fun. Hearing him hedge over whether he’d get away with one year or would be forced to stay for two. He hadn’t even been able to admit that to Damon. Everyone scrambling to change their plans so they could spend Christmas Eve in Atlanta and have a proper party at Alaric’s. Well, since they’d managed that, Damon was definitely going to win on the subject of a Christmas tree.

And it was a great day, no question. Everyone brought food, their own family traditions, and despite tears here and there, everyone managed to keep the day happy. Wives, girlfriends. Liv brought her twin brother Luke, and Luke’s boyfriend, who was a physical therapist Alaric had met once at the VA. Jeremy brought his sister, Elena, who Alaric knew mainly from his occasional stints at the hospital, but also because the two of them were close. There was a very complicated Secret Santa arrangement, which was fun, and Christmas crackers full of candy and terrible jokes.

Damon was relieved to know he would see a few more of Alaric’s genuine smiles before the two weeks were up. And as the night wore on and the crowd thinned, Damon sat by him, enjoying the arm across his shoulder as they night got colder.

There were a few days of work between Christmas and New Year’s, but Alaric and Damon took the time off. When Alaric wasn’t running his increasingly cruel runs, still twice a day, they lazed on the couch, made love until they were both spent and unable to move, and steadfastly talked about everything and anything except the looming deadline. Alaric got nostalgic. He rarely talked about his family, but he talked about them then.

New Year’s was a lot harder. Damon couldn’t have said why, not at the time, but a month or so down the track he started to understand it. He hadn’t believed in the magic of New Year’s since his mother had died, when he was seventeen and Stefan was ten. While everyone talked about new beginnings and resolutions, he saw the tick over from one year to the next as utterly banal and uninteresting. Nothing changed. But this year, he’d been anticipating something different. He’d pictured ringing the new year in with Alaric at his side, making plans, maybe talking about moving into this house which felt so much more like a home than his ugly little flat.

He felt robbed.

As planned, they left the party early. The bar was too full, too loud, and there were still people waiting to get in, so they couldn’t feel bad about it. Besides, all night they’d been treading the careful line between drunk and too drunk, and though they hadn’t actually discussed it, it seemed like they both wanted to be in bed when the clock struck twelve. And they were; Alaric all hands and mouth, sucking Damon down like his life depended on it while he fingered him open for a luxuriously long time, less prep and more foreplay, brushing his fingers over Damon’s prostate until Damon smacked him over the head and begged him to stop before it was all over too quickly. Damon mapping out every inch of Alaric’s body as if he was afraid he’d forget some detail in the coming months (because he refused to acknowledge it might be longer than that).

Alaric fucked him ruthlessly, with unbridled affection and more kissing than usual (and for the record; there was usually a hell of a lot of kissing), slowing down when Damon neared the edge and then pushing again.

When they were finally spent, they didn’t even bother untangling limbs, or tidying up, just stayed wrapped around each other, kissing aimlessly and not talking. Talking seemed like a terrible idea, under the circumstances, with the clock over their heads.

 

 

“I could fly to San Diego,” Damon said, on that last day. “That’s what emergency credit cards are for. Emergencies.”

“You think that would make it any easier? Putting me in a taxi to Coronado and then flying home again? I know it wouldn’t be any easier for me.”

He was right, obviously. For a fucking change. Damon tamped down his anger and didn’t say another word.

“So what’s the deal with contact? Can you call? Skype? Something?”

Alaric was quiet too long.

“What about leave? You do get a week or two off at some point, right? After working seven days a week for months on end and sleeping in trees.”

“Damon.”

“Don’t start again about not waiting for you. It’s bullshit, it’s not your decision, and I’m sick of talking about it, so fuck you.”

Alaric was silent for a while. “Okay, yeah. I mean, sometimes it might be twice in a week, and then I might go silent for months. Can you really deal with that? I’m telling you now, if we’re on a mission, it doesn’t matter who you ask to talk to me, no one will acknowledge where I am, what I’m doing, or in all likelihood, that I actually exist.”

Months. So months where he could be dead. Months where he could just be too deep to talk.

“I can handle it. Call when you can,” he said. He had no idea whether Alaric would.

 

 

Damon drove Alaric to the airport once the house was all locked up. He had the key; he was thinking about just moving in the second Alaric was gone, just to assert his place, but it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about.

They sat in the car for ten minutes, silent.

“I love you,” Alaric said, and with a goodbye kiss that was much too dry and much too brief, he was gone.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heartbroken Alaric meets an old friend in San Diego, and realizes what an idiot he's being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this is one of the chapters that crosses over to Hawaii Five-0. I think there will be three of these. If you are vehemently opposed to the show, click [here](https://fuckyoupbk.tumblr.com/private/178280518230/tumblr_pfcxdd7gaS1wn2uvz) for a basic explanation of the chapter.

Alaric could barely breathe. He wanted to. Home was a sort of foreign concept, and yet. He was homesick. In Alaric’s entire career, he’d never once regretted leaving any place, no matter how little notice he got or how comfortable he had been; he just did it. He’d looked forward to any chance to serve. Maybe he was just getting old.

But he knew it wasn’t. This was Damon, under his skin. Damon’s hurt, angry eyes. When Alaric pictured home, he thought more about Damon than his house.

It took Alaric much too long to hear his name being called, so lost in his thoughts, looking out over the ocean.

“Lieutenant Saltzman!”

Alaric turned, hat in his hand. Steve McGarrett. He might have made an estimate about how many years it had been, if he wasn’t so stunned by the hug.

McGarrett wasn’t a hugger. But Alaric was, and he returned the gesture fondly.

“Lieutenant Commander Saltzman, as of three o’clock this afternoon,” Alaric said, before pulling back.

“Mahalo, brah,” Steve said, and glanced at his watch. “I’m actually late for something.”

Alaric nodded. “Better get on it. It was good to see you again.” He offered a salute, and turned towards the street, before Steve grabbed his arm.

“Slow down. You got dinner plans? Sticking around?”

Alaric nodded, surprised. “No plans.”

“Nicky Rotten’s, yeah?” Steve said, patting Alaric’s shoulder as he sped up. “Seven good for you? On me.”

Alaric nodded, quietly delighted, if unsure what to make of Steve McGarrett being a cheerful, casual ray of sunshine, loose-limbed and content.

“Hey McGarrett,” he called, and Steve turned again. “Show me your wallet.”

Steve tossed his head back and laughed, and then flipped Alaric the bird as he trotted away.

 

 

There was plenty that needed doing. A final physical, a couple of injections, eye test, ear test, blood and urine to make sure Alaric hadn’t picked up chlamydia or cannabis. That might have been a good solution. Failing a drug test would mean he wasn’t getting on an aircraft carrier tomorrow, without a doubt. It would also mean a dishonorable discharge, so, maybe not. Back in the barracks, he changed into jeans and a dark blue t-shirt and around half past six, set off into the streets of Coronado.

It had been a while since he’d come into town and actually spent any time off the base, but he was privately glad for the chance to feel like a part of civilian life for a handful of hours. And he wasn’t going to turn down a beer or two. Besides, he wanted to know how Steve McGarrett had become… _this_. Alaric avoided eye contact, mostly, as he wandered through the streets. It was easier that way, sometimes. Locals could smell the Navy on anyone off the base and they’d make a point of stopping, thanking him for his service, and right then, he didn’t think he could hear it. He tried to school his features so he simply looked distracted, instead of rude.

He beat Steve to Nicky’s, and found a table near a window where the sun could warm his back, within sight of the TV screen so he could keep an eye on the game. Like he cared.

Steve waved to a couple of familiar faces and grinned broadly at Alaric, shaking his hand before he stretched out on the other chair, looking deeply relaxed.

“How long’s it been?” he asked Alaric.

“Uh. 2009, I think. Seven years, give or take. You got out in, 2010? A few months after me. And I’m guessing…” Alaric frowned theatrically. “You took up guided meditation.” He seemed like a different person.

Steve laughed, and waved down a waitress. He ordered a couple of beers, and an iced tea, which was somehow both endearing and surprising.

“Guided meditation. No.”

“Well, I know it wasn’t yoga, because we’ve both being doing that since Annapolis, and I’ve never seen you in this kind of a mood. Ever. You get some good news of your own today?”

Good news.

It was hard to take his promotion in that way. _Here, son, here’s a promotion, an increase in salary, and here is a group of young men to lead to their deaths_.

“Not sure I’d call it good news, but… I’m a free man. Medical discharge,” he said, grinning widely, though if Alaric knew Steve at all, he couldn’t have been that happy about the loss of something so important to him.

“I don’t know if I should ask,” Alaric said.

“I got shot by drug dealers. In a Cessna, over the water. Busted up my liver and I got a transplant. So. Medical discharge.”

Alaric snorted. “That’s great, man. Pretty lucky, too. Can’t have been easy to get a liver on short notice.”

“I paid for it. Dearly. And I’ll be paying for it for the rest of my life,” Steve said, and Alaric couldn’t help but feel he’d missed an in joke, somewhere in there.

The beers arrived, and Alaric watched incredulously as Steve poured half a bottle into a glass, and passed the other bottle and a half to Alaric.

“Anti-rejection meds,” Steve said, by way of explanation. “So if you had any kind of plans to recreate the team weekend in Amsterdam tonight, I’m telling you right now I’m not much fun anymore.” He grinned again and raised his glass, and tapped it against the rim of Alaric’s bottle.

Alaric took a sip, and set the bottle down. “So where are you based?”

Steve’s eyes got a little wider, a little excited. “Heading up a task force on Oahu. Last twenty years, Hawaii’s become a way station for arms dealers, human trafficking, drugs, you name it. We’ve got immunity and means, perfect weather every day, and a solve rate that most police departments would drool over. You should take a vacation, come visit. You know I’d put you on the team in a heartbeat, Ric.”

“That’s very tempting, thank you,” Alaric said, glancing at the menu and controlling his breathing for a moment. Maybe he could follow Steve to Hawaii and just hide on a beach for the rest of his life.

Steve was silent for a long moment, and then he shifted, elbows on the table.

“Ric. Brah, I thought you were here for AT. I’m sorry.”

Alaric forced himself to sit up and give Steve a reassuring nod. He didn’t bother trying to smile. It would have looked hollow.

“It’s fine. The team’s taken some bad hits, the last eight months. They need warm bodies.”

“When do you ship out?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.” Steve didn’t bother to ask where; Alaric wouldn’t have answered if he did.

“I’m sorry, man. So what did they pull you out of?”

“I’m heading up SWAT for Atlanta PD.”

“Those poor sons of bitches. What did they do to deserve getting trained by someone who survived BUD/s?”

“They ask me the same question about three times a week. Four, if I’m doing my job right. Good unit, good people.”

“Atlanta. Why there?”

It was a question people did ask, from time to time. Alaric didn’t have a good answer, and he didn’t like admitting that with his parents gone, and the team guys who weren’t still active being spread all over the country, he had no alliance to any particular city, or even any particular state.

“Because it’s as far from the beach as I thought I could get,” he said, instead of all of that, eyes sparkling as Steve laughed again. “I can’t believe you went back to Hawaii. I always got the impression it wasn’t something you wanted to do. I heard about the Hesses, though, and your father.” Truthfully, Alaric thought that would be more of a reason to stay away. “I’m sorry.”

Steve reached for his phone, and shrugged off the condolences. “It wasn’t the plan. But I stayed for the task force, and then I…” he was scrolling through photographs, apparently. “I got married!”

“Holy shit.”

“Got married, got a couple of kids… step-kids.”

“Holy shit,” Alaric repeated. “Catherine Rollins?”

“Naw, man,” Steve said, passing the phone to Alaric. “His name’s Danny. My partner at Five-Oh, and apparently everything else. He drives me crazy, never shuts up.” Apparently, he’d been rubbing off on Steve — well, that was an unfortunate choice of words, but Alaric had known Steve since they were eighteen years old, _twenty years_ , unbelievably enough, and he’d never seen his friend this happy, or this animated. “I’d kick him to the curb, but I’m attached to the kids, and he gave me half a liver so I’m stuck with him.” He was obviously full of shit and completely in love.

It was clearly a wedding photo. On a small stretch of beach. Danny had to be a foot and a half shorter than Steve, but it was quite possible he was broader in the shoulders. Powerful looking, and happy, with Steve’s arm hooking him around the neck. The girl in the photo was probably twelve or thirteen, though Alaric’s contact with kids was pretty limited and he wasn’t a good judge. The little boy, who was the image of Danny, looked about three. “The kids are Danny’s, obviously. Gracie and Charlie.”

The photograph looked like a candid that had been accidentally snapped while trying to set up something more formal, and perhaps just at the moment the great gust of wind had surprised them. And Steve was looking at Danny like he’d hung the moon. Steve was looking at Danny the way Damon looked at Alaric.

“I always wondered,” Alaric said. And he had. In truth, he’d thought there was a frisson of attraction between the two of them, more than once, over the years.

“Yeah? Me, too,” Steve said, taking the phone back, looking at Alaric down his nose like he was being dared.

But Alaric didn’t think he could show Steve a photograph of Damon. It would be too hard. _Here, this is Damon, we fell in love but I broke up with him so he wouldn’t sit and pine for me_.

Of course, as soon as he let himself think about it, the need to see Damon’s face got overwhelming. Alaric rarely remembered to take photos, whereas Steve seemed to have a thousand of them, so it only took him a moment. A selfie Damon had taken with Alaric, his caterpillaresque eyebrows heavy on his face, bright eyes falling wickedly on the viewer, almost nuzzling into Alaric’s cheek. Alaric looked happy. Or content, which as far as he was concerned, was a better aim. His eyelids looked heavy, half-lidded.

“Damon. My partner. At APD, and up until recently, in everything else.”

Alaric waved the waitress back, so they could order food. A couple of burgers. Keeping it simple.

Steve looked disappointed, but honestly — a little angry, too. “He couldn’t handle you getting deployed.”

“No. **_I_** couldn’t handle me being deployed,” he admitted. And that was all he was going to say about it. Except that Steve had some kind of indecipherable look on his face, and Alaric was baffled, because he’d thought that of all the people Alaric knew, Steve would be the one who understood that.

He pictured Damon sitting alone on his couch with a glass of bourbon, staring out at nothing. Given the time difference, it was probably a fair guess.

“Wow,” Steve said at last. “If I did that to Danny, I think he’d shoot me in the face.”

Alaric grinned. He thought he was going to like Danny, if he ever got a chance to meet the guy. But Steve wasn’t smiling. He was still looking at the photograph on Alaric’s phone, until he slowly handed it back.

“So it wasn’t that serious.”

Alaric shrugged, nodded, shook his head. “If circumstances were different, it could have been. Oh, my god, Steve, what is that expression?”

Steve smiled at the waitress who was bringing the burgers. “Mahalo. Thanks. Looks great,” he said, and she smiled as she dipped her head and walked away.

“Listen, this is a sobering mirror to look into. A few years ago, I would have agreed with you. Attachment is dangerous, man. When I got back to Honolulu I was a robot. I would have stayed that way, if it wasn’t for Danny. I had no one. No friends, my father was dead, I hadn’t seen my sister since I was sixteen. And a year later I had a family, one that just keeps growing. They’re what make the fight worthwhile, Ric. Whatever fight it is.”

Alaric gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “If it’s not guided meditation, what is it — some kind of herbs?”

“Nah, man. It’s _perspective_.”

Alaric felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle.

It seemed as if Steve had realized that if he continued to push, Alaric was going to snap. He watched as Alaric took his burger in two hands and took a bite, trying to get his suddenly racing heart to calm down, hoping nothing showed on his face. “The burgers here were always great,” he said, quietly.

“You’ve really got to come to Honolulu when you get back,” Steve said. “The food… best in the country. I’ll take you on a food tour. Shave ice, shrimp trucks, and Hawaiian pizza. You’ll love it.”

Alaric grinned, relieved the tension had been broken. “I tell you what, if I survive this tour, I’ll come for a whole month. You got a couch I can borrow?”

It turned to a conversation about the weirdness of law enforcement after a military career, which segued seamlessly into a conversation about the dumbest criminals they had encountered, hairiest gunfights. Fun, easy, at least for the given sample, men who were comfortable with knives and guns and the looming specter of death.

The bar was filling up, the volume getting higher, and Steve had switched to his ice tea. It was time to go. The two of them walked through the streets of Coronado, back towards the base, quietly. At the officer’s barracks, Steve turned to Alaric.

“It’s none of my business,” he said.

Alaric laughed. “It’s fine, man. I could use a little of your zen. And your, uh… happiness. I don’t even know if I said it, before. But congratulations. You two look happy together.”

“Well, Danny’s an old curmudgeon and he doesn’t do happy,” Steve said, though his eyes were sparkling. “But I’m a ray of sunshine and I’m happy enough for two, so it all works out in the end. I love him. We drive each other crazy, but we have something going that I didn’t think a guy like me would ever get a chance at. He’s never quite cured me of, uh, _death-defying stupidity_ , I think he calls it, but you know, head to the hospital and get patched up and there he is, furious, gesticulating like he’s hoping to medal in it for Newark. But it’s because he cares that I’ll make it home, you know? He wants to know I’ll be home, he wants to know I think of him in the middle of the day, wants to know I care enough about him, and the kids, to get through the day in one piece. Hell, Danny cares enough that he gave me half his liver.”

Alaric just listened. It was nice to hear this. A little tangential, but he didn’t mind. It was good to know his friend was this happy, that he’d found his feet. He nodded, with a small smile on his face, and waited for Steve to go on.

Maybe he’d lost his train of thought.

“I should go,” Alaric said.

“No, wait, I had a point. Dammit, I wish Danny was here. Monologuing is more his thing than mine. The point is, I got home prickly and armored and looking for the most efficient way to solve my problems. The most efficient way was a task force with immunity and means, and a small, angry mainlander with a chip on his shoulder and a heart the size of Texas, which he wore on his sleeve. And then he brushed the prickles off, dismantled the armor, and taught me how to love him. He couldn’t do it until I let him, though.”

Alaric felt a pit open in his stomach. “That was a pretty good monologue for someone who doesn’t do them,” he teased.

“I was feeling expansive. Find me in Hawaii when you get out. Bring Damon. If he’s your partner, he must be a good cop. I’m sure we can find you something to do at Five-Oh.”

Steve gave Alaric another hug, and if Alaric squeezed a little tighter than he had the first time, Steve didn’t seem to mind. “Don’t die, brother. See you on the other side.”

 

 

Alaric let himself into the small room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, for a long while. One in the morning in Atlanta. Too late to call. He couldn’t do that, Damon might be asleep.

It sounded like an absurd concern, under the circumstances. Alaric turned his cell phone on, and sat with his hands spanning his eyes, and finally made the call.

It was answered on the second ring, and Damon sounded alert. If sad.

“I’m sorry,” Alaric said, and it sounded so inadequate. “I’m so sorry, Damon.”

“You’ll have to be more specific than that. I have a list of ways you’ve wronged me in the last two weeks, and a red pen in my hand. If you get half of them, I’ll forgive you.”

Alaric snorted in spite of himself. “Fine. I’ll start with being sorry I didn’t notice you got a haircut.”

“ _Ding ding ding_ , that’s one. Out of _thirty_.”

They sat silently, breathing, and Alaric wondered if Damon was also wishing they could touch just for a few more minutes. Just hold hands, let their foreheads press together, share breath. His mind ran a reel of their best moments. Most of them were inconsequential. Casual morning kisses, soaking in the spa after a terrible week, sitting on their favorite bar stools in their favorite bar and snarking happily. Moments at work, Damon following Alaric over a fence as Alaric pursued a suspect, hollering that he was an idiot, but refusing to let him escape his sight. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever have moments like that again.

“I didn’t think you’d answer the phone,” Alaric admitted. “I made a mess of things.”

“Of course I answered the phone, you idiot. No matter how ridiculous you’ve been the last couple of weeks, you’re my guy, and since I’m not gonna see you for a while, another five minutes to talk sounds pretty good.”

“Your guy?”

“My guy. I’ve told you repeatedly that _telling me_ not to wait for you doesn’t actually mean I won’t? When did you get the impression that I’d started following orders? No, I joined Pinterest, and I’m starting the wedding planning. How do you feel about _croque-en-bouche_?”

Alaric wiped a tear from his face, and sniffed, smiling. “Sounds like a sexually transmitted infection. Safe to say I’m against it.” He stretched out on the bed, one hand under his head.

“Definitely better if I do all the heavy lifting. How long can you talk?”

Alaric glanced at the time. “Maybe an hour. Can you…?”

“Gosh, let me think.” Damon’s voice crackled with sarcasm, and Alaric listened to him get comfortable. “At $6.99 a minute, I’d say it was worth it to be a little sleepy for my early-morning mani-pedi. So tell me, what are you wearing?”

 

 

The following day, Alaric dressed for duty, slung his duffel over his shoulder, and hardened his heart. He could do this. It was only two years, and he’d get a little rec time when he could. Maybe Steve had been right. The idea that someone was invested in his making it home safely might be what he needed to do it.

 

 

It was six weeks before he managed to make contact again. Hunched over a laptop that looked like it would survive a direct hit by an RPG, on an internet connection that wasn’t exactly stable, he video called Damon, hoping sincerely that he’d be at home. He was. He sat at his sad little dining table and beamed at Alaric, but it was impossible not to notice how drawn and tired he looked. He’d probably even lost weight. Alaric let a wave of guilt rise and fall. Damon was right. Sam was right. Steve McGarrett was right, too. This was Damon’s decision.

“Six weeks without so much as a dick pic?” Damon asked, raising his eyebrows. “I thought you Navy boys were supposed to be a bunch of perverts.”

“We are. But I don’t have a phone, anymore, or I’d do better. I warned you about that, remember?”

“Good thing I have a filthy imagination and a good memory.” Damon tapped his temple with one finger. “Mind like a steel trap. By the way, I went by your place. Watered everything. Put some drop sheets over the furniture.”

“You should live there,” Alaric said, on impulse.

“Not without you,” Damon answered, with his mouth in a tight line that suggested he’d given it some thought. “Where are you? I know, I know, you can’t tell me, _blah blah_ classified _blah_. I’m just gonna assume you’re somewhere extremely safe. Switzerland. Or do I mean Sweden?”

“Uh,” Alaric replied, grinning. “I think you mean Switzerland, but Sweden’s safe too. How’s the team?”

“The new big boss is a tool, but he’s a tool who’s good at the job, so I forebear.” Good. That was good. “The training has definitely been easier. Our last guy was a drill sergeant.”

That, Alaric didn’t like the sound of. “Then work harder. If any of you get yourselves hurt because you’ve enjoyed slacking off…”

“What, you’ll come back here and punish us? That sounds like a good plan.” Well, Alaric had walked right into that one.

Alaric checked the time. “I’m sorry. I have to go. There’s a bunch of guys waiting their turn, and I’ve only got a few hours to sleep before we head out. Just promise me you’re taking care of yourself.”

“Only if you promise, too.” The smile didn’t reach Damon’s eyes. “Hey. Ric.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. You know that, right? Because I hate not being able to tell you every day, and I hate the thought you might forget it while you’re doing your Captain America impression, and get yourself shot. You getting home is non-negotiable.”

Alaric smiled, and nodded, wishing he could reach out and give Damon one of those inconsequential domestic kisses.

“I love you, too. Say hi to the team for me, okay? Take care of each other. Goodbye, Damon.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing will ever be okay again.

Damon lay stretched out on the bench between the lockers, debating whether he wanted headache tablets, or to go home and get outrageously drunk. So far, he was voting ‘both’. He almost wished the bump on his head had turned out to be concussion, just so he had an excuse for a few days off. But then… no alcohol, no pain killers, and concussion protocol was a bitch. He yawned, and sat up, and Matt Donovan dropped onto the bench alongside him.

“You hear from Ric?” Matt asked.

Damon shook his head. “I assume he’s dismantling an arms cartel somewhere. Deep cover, no phones. Or they found the home base for Hydra. I don’t know. I don’t hear anything from weeks at a time, and then he calls twice in one week.”

Matt nods.

“You look like shit. I mean, more like shit than usual, obviously,” he said, charming and delightful. “Baby keeping you awake?”

“Only at night,” Matt said, droll. “During the day I sleep just fine. _Sleepworking_. I didn’t think it would be this hard. Christ, the lungs on this kid.” He was smiling, though. Damon bit his tongue before he could say something cutting and ruin Matt’s mood; he was in love with his kid, and his wife, and Damon was bitterly jealous.

Jeremy was standing at the door to the locker room, frowning at something, hair dripping down his back and jeans still open at the fly.

Damon stood up and whipped his towel off, no shame, and started to dress in front of his locker.

“Hey, the captain’s talking to a couple of Army guys.”

“How thrilling. Anyone want a beer or six?” Damon said, pulling his t-shirt over his head, grimacing as his shoulder wrenched. Shoulders and knees were the most irritating, and easily damaged, joints on the human body, and Damon would have cheerfully had them replaced with titanium or something. He’d been warned that one more shoulder dislocation, and he was likely to need surgery. He sincerely did not want that, but he had to admit that the number of injuries he was getting now that he wasn’t chasing Alaric around Atlanta was… well. Small _er_. Not small enough. And he would have cheerfully taken more, if it meant he wasn’t lying in bed half the night wondering if Alaric was safe, and knowing without a doubt that he wasn’t. Weekends, he tried to stay as busy as he could, so he didn’t get caught in his head. Busy, or drunk. Or both. Drunk with a lot of people around was ideal.

The door opened, and the captain stepped into the locker room, looking grim. No, _stricken_. No one had ever seen him look that way. Even at some of the worst crime scenes any of them had ever had to attend, he had a strength and stillness that was as reassuring to the team as it was any victim they might need to help.

It was a terrible thing to see. But it allowed Damon a moment not to look at the two men standing by his elbow.

Because these guys were not Army. They were _Navy_. He knew those uniforms. Damon’s body stuttered, and his heart froze, and he was pretty sure his mouth had gone completely dry.

“Is everyone here?” the captain asked.

“Parker’s in the women’s locker room,” Jeremy said, pulling his phone out of his pocket and firing off a rapid text. She was there in moments, hair damp and curly from the shower, dressed like she was heading straight to a date.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Damon already knew.

He knew, because there was only one thing this could be. Alaric had no parents, no siblings, probably put the Department down as his next of kin, which was a terrible thought. It should have been Damon, but no, the idiot had broken up with him before hopping a flight to San Diego and apparently not fixed it when that had failed.

“No,” Damon said, firmly. His voice seemed to come from a very long way away. Miles, continents. His knees were shaking, but he couldn’t move to sit down. Matt took a protective step forward, looking for all the world like he was getting ready to catch Damon if he collapsed. Money was pretty good that Damon was going to need it. Weird how you could be a complete dick to some people and they were still nice.

“I’m sorry, son,” the captain said, holding his gaze for a moment. “Commander Saltzman’s convoy hit an IED and then took heavy fire, three days ago. They were hemmed in for hours.”

“Forget it. No,” Damon said again.

“None of them made it out. I’m very sorry.” The captain addressed the whole group, but didn’t take his eyes off Damon.

There were arms on either side of Damon before he could collapse, but they couldn’t stop his heart from disappearing south, into his stomach. They couldn’t do a thing about the way his lungs had ceased trying to process oxygen, or the way his blood had thickened and slowed in his veins. He just let them take his weight until he was sitting on the bench again, no one knowing what to do or say until Liv sat alongside him and wrapped her arms around him. She didn’t say a word, and he couldn’t reciprocate, but she did seem to be holding him together adequately. Was that a good thing, though? Did he even want to be held together? (Also, where had Liv learned to hug? He’d assumed she had quills.)

They’d barely had a handful of months, but they were the best months Damon had ever known. He’d been robbed.

Liv was crying, quietly. Damon had never seen her do that before, either. It was weird, but then, everything was weird. The distraught looks around him, Jeremy already on his phone to his sister, Matt sitting on Damon’s other side, a hand on his back. These guys were the biggest bunch of huggers Damon had ever known, and everywhere, he could see them coming together, patting each other’s backs, wiping away tears.

He sort of hated them for it. Grieving, like they had the right to.

They’d all lost something. But none of them had lost as much as Damon had.

 

 

Damon didn’t remember getting out to the parking lot, or throwing up on the tarmac, over and over until his stomach was dry and he was puking bright yellow bile. He didn’t remember being led to a car, or the drive to Alaric’s house, or being deposited on the couch and handed a glass of water. He only really started to realize where he was when he looked up hours later, to find himself in the middle of what looked like an informal wake, and noticed someone had thrown a blanket over him. There was a hell of a lot of booze, and Damon’s hand emerged from under the blanket to snake a bottle of bourbon off the coffee table. He cracked the top, and drank straight from the neck. Maybe if he stayed drunk for a year, the grieving would be over by the time he sobered up. He sat up, and took another mouthful, aware of the watchful eyes on him, everyone wanting to make sure he was okay, no one wanting to poke the bear.

Matt sat down beside him, cautiously.

“What do you need, Damon?” he asked.

What a stupid question. Damon closed his eyes, and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.

“If I’d known, I would have said goodbye differently, the last time I spoke to him,” he said. “If you can’t fix that, I have no use for you.”

He took the blanket, and the bottle, and staggered up the stairs to sleep in Alaric’s bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Here be a spoiler** ;  
> Note that I have not updated the archive tags. Breathe. I'll be back with the next two chapters soon.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alaric wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note; this chapter and the next are essentially Hawaii Five-0 crossover. This is more or less the end of that, though, so I'm not tagging the show because it wouldn't be right. Ric will b back on the mainland in chapter 13.

_One year later_

 

When Alaric opened his eyes, the disorientation was total. It was incredibly bright, and white, wherever he was.

He reached up weakly to touch his face, and was alarmed to find tubes coming from his mouth and nose. He tried to pull at them, and panicked, and the beeping in the room, which he’d barely noticed, got more and more frantic. Moments later he was surrounded by people — doctors, he thought dimly, nurses, orderlies, all of them too loud and bright, and the tube was being removed from his throat. He reached for the tube at his nose, as well, but someone took his arm and stopped him.

Alaric was a Navy SEAL. No one should have been able to pull his arm away like that. He closed his hand into a fist, preparing to fight, but he was weak, and it seemed like an enormous amount of effort.

It occurred to him that people were actually trying to talk to him. Asking him questions, or giving him information, he wasn’t sure which. He couldn’t really hear. He wasn’t even convinced they were speaking English. He tried to turn away, and roared in pain, and the next thing he knew, the world was getting foggy. Drugs. He was sure; his body was heavy, too heavy, and he was asleep again.

 

 

The next time Alaric opened his eyes, he was a lot calmer, though he was annoyed as hell to find he was in four point restraints. He tried to pull away, tried to speak, and finally heard a familiar voice.

“There he is,” the voice said. A good voice, safe voice. One he trusted. He blinked at the bright light and closed his eyes again. His head was pounding.

“Too bright,” he said, and moments later he felt the light dim and tried opening his eyes again. The effort felt enormous, and he sagged against the bed. “Is that you, McGarrett?”

Steve was unfastening the wrist restraints. It didn’t really seem like something he should have been allowed to do, but Alaric wasn’t going to complain. He rolled his wrists, trying to get the circulation moving, but an unpleasant voice in the back of his head was suggesting that the weakness in his arms had nothing to do with the restraints. Once Steve had removed his ankle restraints, Alaric tried to sit up, but it was impossible. Steve adjusted the back of the bed. He was talking.

“Last time you woke up to tried to rip out your feeding tube,” Steve said. “I don’t think they really want you doing that.” He’d got a buzz cut since the last time Alaric saw him, and honestly, he didn’t look very well. Not in the robust Commander McGarrett sense of the word.

“Are you alright?” Alaric asked, concerned.

Steve guffawed, and sat on the edge of the bed.

“ _You’re_ asking _me_ that now? You are?”

It dawned on Alaric that this — this entire thing — was a fucking mess. He had no idea where he was, what had happened, fuck, he didn’t even know how long he’d been out of action. He couldn’t remember anything, and he was about to say so, when he caught sight of his arm. It looked… withered. They both did.

“Steve, man, you gotta tell me what the fuck is going on,” he said.

Steve took his hand, and gave it a squeeze. “You know, I think all of that can wait. You’re here, you’re alive…”

“Here?”

“Tripler. Oahu. My neck of the woods. You’re safe, Ric. So now you know that, and I know you’re exhausted, so I’m gonna let you sleep. They just thought a friendly face might help. I’ll be back in a few hours, I promise.”

Alaric might have argued; he didn’t really want to burden his old friend with whatever fuckery this was. But he needed answers, and he couldn’t deny the pull of a familiar face. He nodded as Steve rearranged his pillows, and relaxed.

“Aloha, Ric,” Steve said, with a nod, as he headed out into the corridor.

Alaric was pretty sure that meant ‘hello’, but he didn’t have the energy to argue about it.

 

 

The officer who came to talk to him later that night, after his nasogastric tube had been removed and he’d attempted solid food for the first time in he had exactly _no fucking clue_ how long, explained the last year to him.

The last _year_.

Alaric was forty. He closed his teeth against the anger and sadness over what he’d missed, and wondered if it was a good thing that the memories he did have were beyond hazy. Probably. Snatches here and there, that was all. He wondered if he’d remember more in his nightmares. Was there a next-level PTSD? Maybe he was actually going to have to address it, this time. With more than sitting in a therapy room and listening to everyone else talk about lives that were a lot more messed up than his was. He closed his hand over his thin arm, horrified by it. His body had betrayed him. A whole fucking year. He pressed his hand to his eyes, and didn’t bother fighting the tears that came.

He heard a knock at the door, and hastily wiped his face. Steve, again. With a big smile on his face, pretending like Alaric wasn’t the most pathetic excuse for a SEAL that he’d ever seen.

“It’s not a good time,” Alaric said. “And I understand I’m in intensive care, so I don’t think you should really be here. Don’t you have a husband and kids at home?”

“Nah,” Steve said, sitting on the edge of the bed again. He put a small, pink paper bag on Alaric’s bed-table and reached for the controls, so Alaric could sit up. “I’ve got too many friends in here for anyone to be able to keep me away. And the reason I’m here is _because_ it’s not a good time. So eat your malasadas.”

Alaric reached weakly for the bag, and peered inside.

“Malasadas.”

“Doughnuts without the holes. I’m telling you, you’re gonna love Hawaii. The food, the people. The food. The malasadas. Can you eat solid food yet?”

He could. Sort of. The sores in his mouth made it uncomfortable, but the feeding tube had felt like a humiliation, and he’d come close to begging them to take it out. So he was left with no choice but to try so they’d do it.

“Deep fried simple carbs, covered in sugar,” he deadpanned. “You’ve become a proper civilian.”

“Trust me when I say you don’t need to watch your weight.”

Alaric didn’t want to know what he looked like.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”

Alaric reached for the water on his table, and tried not to bristle when Steve stood up and brought the straw to his lips.

“No, I’m okay,” he said, after the cold water had soothed the inside of his mouth. “Look, Steve, I really appreciate you coming by, twice in one day, but. I’m okay. I really, really think you’ve got better things to do with your time.”

“Not really.” Steve grinned. Apparently he’d noticed that Alaric was struggling with the lights, which he suspected weren’t actually all that bright, just to his overly sensitive eyes, but he appreciated them being turned down all the same. “I’m gonna use my newfound powers of observation to guess that someone briefed you on what happened to you. You know you’ve been here almost six weeks, right?”

Alaric swallowed, and nodded.

“Well, I never get a moment’s peace with Danno as my partner, and my husband, so I’ve been coming by to sit with you when I need a rest from the yapping. You can’t send me away. It’d be like not letting me watch the end of a movie I’m kind of invested in. You need a friend, Ric.”

He couldn’t deny that. But he hated the word ‘need’.

They sat in silence for a while. “Does Damon know I’m here?”

Steve shook his head. “Having trouble finding him. He left Atlanta.”

Alaric felt tears burn his eyes again, but he dismissed them. The thought of Damon wandering away untethered was horrifying.

“We’ll find him. Don’t worry.”

“What about the rest of my team?”

“They’ve been briefed. As soon as you’re fit, we’ll get someone on the phone. There’s an eager-sounding kid called Jeremy who’s taken it on himself to be the spokesperson.”

Jeremy. Alaric swallowed against another rain of tears, and nodded. In a lot of ways, he felt like a bit of a father figure to the younger ones, especially because so many of them didn’t actually have fathers. Jeremy, Tyler… Matt’s father hadn’t been in his life since he was a kid, he didn’t really count for much. He hoped they’d been looking after each other. Anyway, Jeremy would know where Damon was. Those two had a love-hate relationship they wouldn’t give up easily.

“How much do you remember?” Steve asked.

Alaric shook his head.

Maybe if he wasn’t so stoned, he wouldn’t have said it all out loud. He thought he needed to hear it, really let himself know it, so it filtered into his bones. He knew there was every chance Steve already knew; retired or not, people all over god’s green earth owed Steve favors and Alaric suspected that if he had been determined to find out, he would have found out.

So he told the story. It didn’t feel like his story.

His convoy had been hit; this, Alaric distantly remembered. An IED, feeling the truck flip, the taste of blood in his mouth. He remembered that. Not well, but in fragments. He remembered nothing of the convoy taking heavy fire afterwards, nor of what had come next. They Navy wasn’t even sure themselves. Certainly, he’d been the lone survivor, or at least the only one allowed to live once the gunfire had died out. He’d been taken.

No one knew how he’d gotten all the way from Afghanistan to North Korea, nor why. There were theories, utterly unsubstantiated but theoretically sound, though Alaric already couldn’t remember what those theories were. But he’d been a prisoner. For an entire year. His people had been told he was dead, and for all intents and purposes he had been. But a prisoner; starved, obviously, though they had taken steps to keep him alive for reasons unknown, to deal with his injuries and keep him fed and watered enough to sustain life. He was vaguely aware that he had new scars; burns that had been cared for, a compound fracture to the ribs that they assumed had involved lung trauma. Maybe they’d planned to sell him, ransom him. Maybe they’d even tried. Given Alaric’s mission, that would have failed. There was a reason they’d declared him dead instead of searching, he was clear about that.

And then, six weeks ago, when the Navy had raided a compound near the border of North and South Korea, he’d been found. They’d bombed the place, so it was a fucking miracle Alaric wasn’t dead, but they’d found him, and brought him home. Well, to Hawaii. Tripler. Alaric supposed it was the closest base hospital, it made sense, but for all he was glad to have a friend nearby, he felt terrible about the idea that Steve felt some sort of obligation to be here for him.

That part, he left out of his recitation.

None of this was news to Steve, Alaric could tell. But he stayed silent throughout.

“How much of it do you remember?” he said, bringing the water, and straw, back to Alaric’s burning mouth.

“Fuck-all,” Alaric said, when he could. “Barely anything. I should be glad, but I’m not. I didn’t even let them tell me about the, uh, the extent of my injuries. I know I’m emaciated, I know everything hurts, and right now that’s about as much information as I can deal with. I suppose now I’m awake and I’ll have to get off this bed eventually, I’ll figure it out, but I just didn’t want to hear, and please, don’t tell me. Not now.”

Steve nodded.

“You look tired. I should go.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” Alaric said. “But really, I’ll be okay. Don’t come tomorrow. Come in a few days, if you want, but Steve, you have a life, and you’ll piss me off beyond the telling of it if you disrupt that to hang out here with my skinny ass.”

“Okay,” Steve replied, with an unrepentant smile, and Alaric knew he’d be back.

 

 

And he was back. Every day.

 

 

He seemed pretty determined to mix it up, too. One by one he brought his team around, once Alaric was out of intensive care. Danny was first, of course, and Alaric had almost thrown them bodily from the room, and might have, if his muscles weren’t so atrophied; they reminded him far too much of himself and Damon, bickering joyfully. Danny talked with his hands, like Damon, but Damon dialed up to thirteen. It made him miss Damon so badly he was sick.

But because it made him miss Damon, he relished every second of it, and never wanted them to leave. It was such a sweet, familiar rhythm.

He was surprised one Saturday when Danny came without Steve, but with their kids. Grace, wise beyond her sixteen years, and Charlie, who seemed to take a genuine delight in every single second of the world. Alaric was hopeless with kids, and Danny didn’t make them stay for long, but apparently he’d been entrusted with bringing Alaric something called a plate lunch (which was in a box, so go figure) and they sat for an easy twenty minutes, talking about nothing consequential. Alaric tried hard not to think about the expression on Grace’s face when she first looked at him, and was grateful beyond the telling of it that no one had brought him a mirror.

When they said goodbye, Alaric reached out. “Danny. Can I have a word?”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” he said. “Charlie, hold Grace’s hand. I’ll find you in the waiting room.”

He turned back to Alaric.

He wasn’t anything like Damon, except when he was bickering with Steve, but here he was with his hands in his pockets, looking like a guilty schoolboy. That made Alaric think of Damon and his innocent look, which was anything but.

“You know, the way I hear it, you’re a hell of a detective,” Alaric said.

“You hear it right,” Danny said, with a resigned nod. He took a step closer to the bed.

“You know I’ve known Steve since we were eighteen, right?”

“I do know that, but not because I’m a hell of a detective. I know that because I heard a story about the second-last weekend before BUD/s. There was a funnel involved, and a lot of liquor, and I remember something about a really regrettable game of truth or dare. You people are not normal. I don’t know if anyone ever told you that in your formative years, but you are not normal. That shit is supposed to happen in high school, not nine days before you undertake grueling physical training which is literally designed to make you quit.”

Alaric grinned, for a moment, and nodded his head, trying not to remember Freddie vomiting out of his nose.

“I assume you had a point, there, and this isn’t the prologue of a story about Steve streaking across the Naval Academy quadrangle.”

“My point is, he’s tracked international arms dealers across five continents. And you’ve found murderers all over the country. And you have a task force with immunity, means, and from what Steve says, a ‘totally awesome’ computer table with connections to facial recognition and databases all over the world.”

Steve glances at his toes, and back.

“So when you tell me you can’t find Damon, I guess I have a lot of trouble believing you.”

Danny nodded.

“We’re looking,” he said, flatly. “Don’t forget. People who know how people get found also know how not to be. See you in a couple of days, Ric.”

It didn’t sound all that convincing to Alaric.

Once Steve had introduced his team — no. Not his team. It went way beyond that. His team, his _ohana_ , the Hawaiian word for family. The people all over the island Steve considered his own, they started coming by on their own. Clearly coached, but alone. Tani Rey was a treasure; she might have been the best-matched chess opponent Alaric had had since high school, she was fast, whip smart, and beat him as often as he beat her.

“You’re good,” she said, voice full of admiration, one day, marking off a square on their now extremely important scorebook. They’d won twenty games each, over a period of a few weeks. “You obviously didn’t learn from McGarrett.”

“No. And I didn’t learn poker from him, either.”

“I’m very glad for your wallet,” she said. “Oh, I brought you something.” She pulled a pink cardboard box out of a carry bag she’d left on the chair. “Coco puffs. You need fattening up, in the worst way. And these… actually, these are the best way, so I’m taking them with me.”

“I can’t believe you’d steal food from a disabled veteran,” Alaric said, and Tani laughed.

“Alright. Eat them, then. But once you’re on you’re feet, it’s a free-for-all. I’m out. I’ll see you soon. You want me to leave the chess set? I mean, not that I tell tales out of school, but if you need cheering up, beating McGarrett in nine turns is always a solid strategy.”

“Get out of here,” he said, with a grin. “Hey, before you go. How are they going finding Damon?”

Tani gave a tight smile. “Seems like he’s pretty determined not to be found. But you know them. If anyone can find them, they can.”

One of the more memorable moments in that three-week period involved Alaric doing a double-take as a man came through his door; almost as wide as he was tall, but that wasn’t what startled Alaric. No, this was was the face of the shrimp people kept bringing him. Alaric laughed out loud, and held out his hand.

“Well, you’re obviously Kamekona. Thanks for all the, uh. Plate lunches.”

“Mahalo, brah,” he said, his smile twinkling his eyes. “I brought you something special.”

“I’m gonna tell you something, Kamekona, if it’s a doughnut with a shrimp in it, thanks, but no thanks.”

Kamekona looked crestfallen for about a second, and then shrugged it off.

“So, Steve really is doing the rounds, isn’t he. I don’t need visitors every day. Next time he sends you over, feel free to pretend you came, okay?”

“Nah, brah,” Kamekona said, putting a box — no, a boxed _plate lunch_ — on Alaric’s tray table. “If McGarrett says you’re _ohana_ , you’re _ohana_. And anyway, dis da kine shrimp, Saltzman special. If you can eat it. I heard you like your food spicy.” He waggled his eyebrows absurdly. “And when you’re on your feet, you come by the truck and eat it in front of McGarrett, and it’s fifty percent off. Between two and four in the afternoon.”

Alaric opened the box with a sly smile, and grinned hard as soon as he could taste the scent. No, not a typo. He could _taste_ the _scent_. Okay, he hadn’t eaten chili in over a year, and his mouth was barely healed, and for all he knew his stomach would revolt, but in that moment, he didn’t care. He reached for a shrimp so crusted in smoky chili powder that it looked halfway to black, and lowered it into his mouth. He chewed, slowly, tossing the tail aside, and grinned.

“You’ve got a deal,” he said. “Hey, thanks for coming by.”

“Aloha, brah,” he said. “You got a good stomach for a dead _haole_.”

 

 

After that visit, something snapped in Alaric.

“I am done with this bed,” he told his doctor. “I want the cath out. I want to start PT. If I go any longer not using these muscles I’m gonna be in a wheelchair the rest of my life, and I won’t accept that. So. Catheter out, unless you want me to do it myself, and I start PT tomorrow.”

The doctor and the PT looked at each other, and the PT shrugged.

“We’ll start with hydrotherapy,” he told Alaric. “You SEALs are all at least part fish. We can start building muscle tone before you start trying to hold your own weight. Sound like a plan?”

Sounded like more than a plan. Sounded like a lifeline, even if Alaric had spent a good amount of the last few years avoiding the water. He nodded firmly, and the two of them headed for the door.

“Oh, I don’t have to emphasize the thing about the catheter, right?”

The doctor turned to him.

“Fine. I’ll send a nurse in. You know something, Commander Saltzman?”

Alaric raised his eyebrows.

“You’re very demanding for a dead man.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Alaric replied, and then they turned off his lights. He debated a little morphine, and decided against it, slipping off to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon is found.

**_Three months later_ **

 

Alaric had gained almost thirty pounds. Mostly in the top half of his body. He was still struggling to stay on his feet, and couldn’t manage without the parallel bars, or crutches, but he didn’t care. He was sick of the hospital. And he was a team guy; there was housing available, and people who could bring him to the day clinic, and he was so fucking done with the place he wasn’t going to take no for an answer anymore. He’d been arguing back and forth for days, proving his mobility with the chair, and he was ninety percent sure that the reason they were letting him go was because they were sick of fighting with him.

Point was, they were letting him go.

Steve appeared out of nowhere. He’d been careful, visiting a couple of times a week and brushing off all insistences that Alaric didn’t need any of his people to visit as often as they had been. It was nice, but he was sick of feeling like a burden. Which was why when Steve announced in the middle of the argument that Alaric was coming to stay with him and Danny Alaric almost blew his top.

They shouted at each other for a good ten minutes, Alaric sitting on the edge of the bed, Steve glaring from three feet away.

“If the tables were turned, if I needed to recover in Atlanta, what would you do?”

Alaric’s jaw clenched. That was Williams logic if he’d ever heard it. He refused to answer. Worse, he knew Damon would have said the same thing.

“Come on. What difference does it make? You’ll be around friends. The downstairs bathroom is set up for low mobility, we have a ground floor guest room, I don’t get why you’re being an idiot about this. Would you do me a favor and listen to me for one second? I don’t want you sitting in an empty apartment bored out of your skull between PT appointments, Ric. For once in your life, stop doing everything the hard way.”

Alaric felt his shoulders tense. Time for the big guns.

“An idiot? Nah. An idiot would just believe you when you say that you’ve spent five months looking for Damon without finding him. See, I don’t get that game, man. Either you found him and you’re lying about it, or you’re not even trying, and you’re just placating me. Which, either way, _fuck you_ , means you’re not the friend you’re trying to tell me you are. So, Steve, which is it?”

Steve’s jaw worked for long moments, as if all his brain power was isolated in that chunk of cartilage and bone.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’m taking you to Five-Oh, and I’m gonna show you what we’ve found, and then you’ll believe me. And then you can shut up, stop being even more stubborn than Danny, and move into the guest room. Because being by yourself isn’t going to get you better any faster, and it’s gonna feel like an eternity.”

 

 

Steve pushed Alaric’s wheelchair into the Iolani Palace, completely unnecessarily, but Alaric was feeling weirdly subdued, and didn’t bother to argue that he could manage on his own. They were silent during the elevator up to the Five-Oh offices.

The place looked good. And the tech was ostentatious, but impressive. Alaric endured a round of welcomes from Steve’s team. He couldn’t really deny that he kind of loved them all, but he wasn’t in the mood to be distracted. Steve wheeled him into what passed for a bullpen, and patted his shoulder.

“How are you doing?” Danny asked, squeezing his shoulder as he shook his hand.

“I’m fine,” Alaric said. “Or I will be, once you all stop pretending you can’t find Damon.”

Danny nodded, not bothering to deny it.

He pushed a file from the table to the main screen. Alaric felt his stomach clench. Damon. His ID photograph, dress blues, hair just a little longer than it probably should have been.

He turned to Danny.

“So?”

“I can’t do this,” Danny said, turning heel and walking away.

“What the fuck?”

Steve sighed, but didn’t bother answering.

There was a long moment of silence, and Lou Grover stepped forward. He reminded Alaric of the Captain at APD. Tall, black, built, and overwhelmingly kind, but with a steel to his spine. He glanced at Alaric, and nodded.

“There’s a few of us around here who’ve had a bad run with partners turning out to be the bad guys,” he said. “You need to know this isn’t gonna be pretty.”

Alaric shook his head; he knew Damon. “Bring it.”

“Damon Salvatore,” Lou said, as if discussing a suspect. “Born June 24, 1981, to Giuseppe and Lily Salvatore. Mother deceased, died 1998 from lung cancer.”

He pushed up another screen. Alaric noticed the he had rapidly moved from a great deal of resentment about the way Lou was talking about Damon in such clinical terms, to feeling quite relieved about it.

“Damon Salvatore is the eldest son of Giuseppe Salvatore, currently incarcerated under… RICO, but to be more specific, murder, kidnapping, arms trafficking, drug trafficking, human trafficking, real estate fraud, conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to commit fraud… well, you name it, they threw it at him. Stefan Salvatore, Damon’s brother, born 1988, turned state’s evidence and went into witsec. Don’t ask me where he is,” Grover said, still staring at the screen. “I don’t have access, I don’t want access, and by all accounts he’s been a model citizen.

“Fifteen months ago, Salvatore’s regular partner, the leader of Atlanta PD SWAT, was killed in action in Afghanistan.” Grover gave Alaric a _Look_. Capital L. “Salvatore didn’t take it well. Disciplinary problems. Unnecessary use of force. He got busted down to Vice.”

Alaric scrubbed a hand over his face. This seemed so ridiculous.

“Less than a month later, almost three million dollars in cash, and almost eighty kilos of methamphetamine disappeared from the Atlanta PD evidence locker. Damon was investigated. They’d already found fingerprints, disrupted camera footage, a whole bunch of damning evidence. But before IA could arrest him, he disappeared.”

Alaric’s head was spinning. This made no sense. This wasn’t Damon. He knew Damon. Damon wouldn’t have done this, never. His head spun, his mouth went dry, the urge to push himself out of his chair and run full-tilt all the way to Georgia was overwhelming.

“I uncovered a juvie record. It’s a sad story. Looks like Salvatore Senior took out a lot of rage on his eldest son. Damon ran away from home when he was sixteen, ended up in the system for a year and a half before he was discharged. Eight foster families in fifteen months.”

That wasn’t news. Damon had been blunt about that time. All he’d really cared about was getting away from New York. He hadn’t managed well with a bunch of well-meaning folk who didn’t understand that his life had been hell. Nor the less well-meaning folk who’d taken in foster kids because it was more lucrative than installing a punching bag.

Alaric stared at the screen.

“No,” he said.

No one responded. The young ex-SEAL, Junior Reigns, stood away from the computer table, hands in his pockets, looking bashful.

There was no way in hell any of these people, these strangers who had pretended to be his friends, were going to understand what was going on in his head. How wrong they were about everything.

“Why wasn’t he arrested?”

“There are warrants,” Lou said, kindly, and Alaric pressed his hands to the wheels of his chair, and pushed away from the table.

 

 

Alaric didn’t really remember the steps it took to get him out of the Palace, and into the gardens, setting himself by the statue of King Kamehameha, and staring at nothing. But he was there. Starving hungry, utterly alone, and surrounded by people who could not understand what was happening in his head.

He rubbed his hands over his upper arms, though he wasn’t cold. It was a reassurance that his muscle mass was returning, bit by bit. He still hadn’t looked at himself in the mirror and didn’t want to. He just needed to know that he was recovering, no matter how long it took.

He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there, by the bench, when Steve and Danny came outside and joined him, silently. They didn’t ask a question, they just sat, staring at nothing.

Alaric had known shrinks who worked like this.

“There’s no way,” he said, when he could find his tongue. When the silence got to be too much.

“There’s a lot of evidence,” Danny replied. “It’s not circumstantial stuff, Ric. They have fingerprints. No DNA, but fingerprints. He used latex gloves. Not everyone knows they can still leave latents. It’s so thin, you know?”

“Yeah, but Damon _knew_ that. He wouldn’t have been that stupid. He’d worked forensics for a year before deciding to apply to SWAT. This makes no fucking sense.” Alaric scratched the back of his neck, and cursed his atrophied muscles.

“So you expect me to accept that my… partner, who is a damn good cop and did everything he could to get out of the family business, suddenly decided to switch sides and start stealing money and drugs? Hook up with the kind of people who could move that sort of quantity of product? Damon hates his father. There’s no way he just decided to join up with that world.”

Danny’s face shuttered. “No matter how close you are to someone, they can surprise you,” he said, and Steve rubbed his fingertips over the back of Danny’s neck. Apparently, there was something there that Alaric didn’t know about. Right then, he didn’t care.

He stared at a flower bed.

“Convince me,” Steve said. “Tell me why we should believe that Damon had nothing to do with this, and fled for perfectly innocent reasons. Why he’s ignoring open warrants and evading security cameras.”

Alaric stared at the flower bed so hard that for a moment, he imagined it might burst into flames.

There was nothing he could say that would convince these two.

“I,” he said, and shook his head. Danny reached out and gave Alaric’s arm a squeeze.

“Use your words, babe,” he said.

Alaric pictured Damon spread out beneath him, angling his face to be kissed. Begging for just a little bit more. Talking in hushed tones about his father’s crimes. About growing up around a bunch of people who relished the chance to do harm. The petty thrill he’d felt, enrolling in the academy after barely scraping graduating marks in college and his fantasies about putting the rest of Giuseppe’s buddies behind bars.

“I _know_ him,” Alaric said.

They were silent for long moments.

“Good enough for me,” Danny said.

Alaric looked up, and he knew the suspicion on his face was evident.

“Me too,” Steve said, standing. Alaric was yet again faced with the feeling that he’d missed some kind of secret communication. “We’ll find him. So are you coming back to the house?”

 

 

Settling into _Casa McDanno_ was easy, in the end. Or it was easier than arguing about it, perhaps. Something like that. He didn’t ask why the bathroom was set up for someone with low mobility; he was just grateful that he could stand in the shower. Steve and Danny had a good life. Alaric gathered that the custody issue had long been contentious, but Grace and Charlie had their own rooms, and were there close to half the time.

Grace reminded Alaric of himself at that age. She worked hard at pretending to be a teenager in a constant snit, but she was athletic, a high achiever, smart as they came and terrifyingly insightful. Charlie, who had given Alaric those huge smiles but kept his distance when Alaric was stuck on a hospital bed now adored him openly, especially when Alaric proved himself willing to spend an entire weekend building a Lego city with him, talking about history or reading him bedtime stories.

Alaric’s weekdays were exhausting. He was collected by a VA van in the morning, spent the day doing physical therapy, and was returned to the house every evening, where he tended to nap for a couple of hours, until dinner. He tried not to needle Steve and Danny about Damon, but he worried endlessly. He wished he had access to literally anything that could help, but he didn’t.

“Maybe I should go back to Atlanta,” he said.

“Why?” Steve asked, looking weirdly stricken. Alaric was becoming more and more aware than the man couldn’t let go of someone he’d taken under his wing.

“Well, for a start, I have a house there that’s probably trashed. And since I basically rebuilt it by hand, I hate that feeling.”

Danny shoved his hands in his pocket. “Your house. The house you willed to Damon?”

Alaric blanched.

“We found regular payments from an account controlled by your lawyer. There’s a caretaker who keeps it clean, and waters the garden.”

Alaric gaped.

“And even with that, you can’t find him?”

“He arranged it through your lawyer. No trace on the account. Chill out, Ric, we’ll find him.”

Chilling out was _not_ on the agenda.

 

 

Alaric was pumping weights with his legs (embarrassingly low weights, but they were getting higher every week) one day, when he looked up and saw Junior Reigns talking to one of the PTs. He sat up. He hadn’t even known Junior came here.

Except…

Junior was looking at him, like he’d been asking where Alaric was. Alaric sat up on the bench and nodded.

“Commander Saltzman,” Junior said.

“How many times,” Alaric warned, he eyebrows shifting to ‘incredulous’ mode.

The kid grimaced. “Ric. We found something we think you need to see. Can you come now, or… we’re happy to wait until you’re done for the day.”

Alaric reached for his crutches and staggered to the locker room. He wanted to leave right then, but Junior suggested a shower wouldn’t be a waste of time. He growled with impatience, but took a shower, and he was following Junior out to Steve’s penismobile no more than ten minutes later.

“Not getting by on the stick?” Junior asked.

“Not for a few hours after PT. What did you find?”

“I think you need to see it for yourself, Sir. Ric.”

It was on the tip of Alaric’s tongue to suggest that ’Sir Ric’ was a bit much, but instead, he accepted the help getting into the car and they were off.

The entire team was there, struggling to make eye contact with Alaric, but there. Jerry, their tech guy, brought up a series of images on the screen.

“So, you should know, we got these images from an FBI operation. Not completely legally.”

Alaric rolled his eyes, and shifted his feet, and he tried to be annoyed when Tani slipped an office chair beneath him, but he’d already been on exhausted legs for too long. He sat, with a quiet sigh of relief.

“So they’re trying to build a RICO case against a new family connected to one of the big five,” Danny said. As former Newark PD he had plenty of experience with organized crime. “And they have this footage.”

He hit play on a video, and Alaric watched, clueless as to what he was seeing. “What does this have to do with me? This is New York, right?”

“Just watch,” Danny said.

A brawl suddenly appeared in view, and Alaric watched impassively for a few moments.

And then he clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Damon,” he said, breathily.

No one responded. Everyone took a step away from the table, as Alaric watched Damon beat the living crap out of some wise guy. He understood, he did. What could they see beyond what was on the screen?

“He’s undercover,” Alaric said, once the video seemed done.

No one said a word.

“He thinks I’m dead. I told him he’d be a damn good undercover cop, and now he thinks I’m dead, he’s undercover.”

To his surprise, it was Lou Grover who spoke.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” he said, kindly, before Alaric slumped back in his chair.

 

 

Grover couldn’t confirm a single fucking thing, which surprised Alaric exactly zero. It was the icy refusals to talk from everyone the man tried to make contact with that convinced Alaric that he was right. They all said the same thing. If Damon Salvatore was working organized crime in the city, he was doing it because he was a corrupt cop. They found exactly two things; the name of the capo in the footage, and an address for a restaurant the crew frequented.

Alaric barely slept; battled guilt day and night, drove himself physically until he was exhausted. He could only distract himself adequately by playing with Charlie, swimming until he couldn’t feel his arms, or throwing himself into an afternoon of cooking.

He had to get to New York. He needed to know who Damon’s handler was, what Damon was doing. He spoke to Jeremy, spoke to Matt, didn’t give away what he’d come to conclude had to be happening. The conversations were stilted, but that wasn’t exactly surprising. They thought Damon was a criminal, and there was no doubt in Alaric’s mind that it was a part of his cover. The corrupt cop, ex-family boy reverting to type.

It was time to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! Now you know. 
> 
> Please feel free to come and say hi on tumblr. You can find me at [fuckyoupbk](http://fuckyoupbk.tumblr.com).


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alaric heads back to Atlanta and settles back into APD, learning to manage a new partner in the process.

Alaric staggered into Atlanta PD almost two years after he’d left, on crutches, and the captain took a meeting without hesitation.

“You have to know I can’t head SWAT anymore,” he said. “I’m never gonna be able to do work that physical again.”

“You know police procedure back to front. You worked Naval intelligence. Take the detective’s exam,” Captain Finch replied. He sounded like he’d given it a lot of thought.

Alaric nodded. Yeah, he could do that. It wasn’t a demotion, but it still felt like one. He had built up most of his muscle mass, but he was never going to be capable of what he’d done before.

“I need to know about Damon,” he said.

“Look. I hope he’s not guilty, man, I really do. But the truth is, the evidence is overwhelming, and if he ever gets arrested, he’s going down.”

Alaric nodded.

“That’s cute,” he said. “Because the way I see it, he couldn’t have done what he did without your help.”

The captain stared at him for a long moment, utterly failing to conceal his inability to form a sentence.

“If you’re suggesting I stole money and drugs,” he said, slowly, “then I’m gonna have to tell you that you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Oh, no, not that,” Alaric deadpanned. “Gosh, no. Not that.”

“So?”

“Well, in order for him to get his career flushed publicly down the toilet so he could go undercover for… alright, I’m not sure about this, is it FBI? Or NYPD? Some kind of RICO joint task force? He had to have had help.”

The captain made a valiant effort to look offended.

“Please, I’m not an idiot. He’s a wet dream. Born into mob contacts, knows the language, no ties, nice to look at — if I was looking for someone to throw under a bus legally and then put into a really deep cover operation, I’d do the same thing. They probably love that he’s an ex-cop. I’ll bet he uses a few cops across… New York, New Jersey, maybe Philly, DC… helps, doesn’t it? When he needs information? Just pretends to use a double agent, when really he’s feeding them whatever lies the feds want him to. Have I got that about right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if I did, I’d tell you you’re barking up a very dangerous tree,” the captain said, looking serious. “Are you hearing me?”

He leaned forward, and crossed his arms on the desk.

“I’m gonna be straight with you, because you’re a good man who just crawled out of hell. There is no one in this country who is gonna talk to you about Damon Salvatore, crooked cop with a slew of arrest warrants to his name.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s deep under cover. In which case, rattling the branches of trees isn’t gonna get you anywhere, and could get him dead. And maybe you’re wrong, and if you go chasing him you’ll end up tarred with the same brush. How’s that for a double-edged sword?”

“Captain…”

“Don’t captain me, son. If you’re right, the only play you’ve got here is to execute the kind of patience he has, and if you do that, I’m sure you’ll find him one day. Are we clear? Take the fucking detective’s exam so I can take you back, and you’re not rattling around that big house on your own any longer than you have to.”

Alaric only bristled.

“I’m on your side, Ric. I could have busted you both down for fraternization two years ago,” the captain said. “I didn’t, because you’re both good cops and together you were a hell of a team. But I’ll tell you now that if you start making noises about him, the best thing that could happen is you lose your job, maybe do some time. Worst is one day you’re gonna get a death notification. So shut up. Take the detective’s exam. If you trust him — if you’re one hundred percent sure he’s innocent, and working undercover — have the respect to let him do his job, and come back when he can.”

 

 

The worst thing was, he had a point. Alaric bit his tongue, tried not to fantasize worst case scenarios when his mind got quiet — easier said than done, though, and it was better to keep his mind painfully busy.

It took time to get back into the swing of things. Physically, for a start. Getting up and down the stairs at home was difficult, and Alaric found himself all too often keeping some clothing downstairs and avoiding the bedroom for days at a time. He didn’t really need the memories of time spent up there haunting him, anyway, and once he was a little more agile, he found himself making excuses to move into one of the guest bedrooms. Slowly, a few items at a time, everything he laundered ending up in that less familiar wardrobe until there was no question of where he lived. One day, he just closed the door. The wardrobe held the uniforms he’d probably never need again, and nothing else. There was a lamp on the dresser and a tube of lubricant and condoms in the drawer which he couldn’t bear to throw away any more than he could bear to look at them. The curtains were drawn. It would probably get musty in there. Alaric couldn’t bring himself to care. As soon as he could fix up the upper floor — as soon as he was well enough — he would think about selling the place.

Maybe.

The night after the first time he looked at a real estate website, wondering how much he could get for the place, he dreamed that Damon was banging on the door in the rain, and woke up sweating and with tears in his eyes.

Physical therapy, and studying for the detective’s exam. He started letting people visit (translation; he stopped ignoring knocks on the door, and friendly text messages). It was just so fucking hard to look any of them in the eye when he knew they believed the worst of Damon. That they could have worked side-by-side with him for months, and believe that he would steal money and drugs. That he could have put his own life at risk to drag Jeremy out of the line of fire and they could still believe Damon was a criminal.

He felt utterly alone.

 

 

One day, as he was taming his stubble, Alaric had a peculiar feeling that he didn’t know what he looked like anymore. Leaning toward the mirror, he focused intently on the facial hair he’d just finished trimming, but couldn’t see his entire face.

He looked himself in the eye. Okay, that was his eyes. They were the same hazel color they’d always been, but they were, still, somehow, startling. There was a scar that ran along the side of his face, up towards his eyebrow, so he moved his gaze to his eyebrows. They looked pale. Had they always been pale? Were they paler than they had been? Somehow, they wouldn’t connect to his eyes in a way that made sense.

He looked at his nose. It was a nose. It didn’t look any different to the way it had, but it still wouldn’t form a coherent face. It was in the right place; there was still a scar across the bridge from a decade-old boxing injury, nothing new there.

He moved down to his mouth. His bottom lip was heavy, with a little flat patch right in the center of the bow. He couldn’t remember having noticed that before, but it didn’t seem particularly alien.

How did a person look at their entire face in one go? How was anyone supposed to see past the features, and see _themselves_ in the jumble?

Abandoning the trimmer, he headed downstairs to pick up a photo frame. There was a picture of himself and Damon, Damon looking characteristically smug and Alaric looking slightly shy. He loved the way Damon was so free with his affection, especially in public, and hated now the fact that he couldn’t reciprocate the way he’d wanted to, years of internalized homophobia courtesy of a military career constantly holding him back. He wondered now if Damon knew that not pulling away was the best he could under the circumstances. If he ever got anther chance, he was going to walk down the street holding Damon’s hand.

Alaric felt tears burn his eyes, but he tried to stay on track. He could see his face in the photograph. His whole face. Maybe it was a matter of distance. Like focal length.

He headed back into the guest room he was sleeping in (he couldn’t bear to think of it as his bedroom, even if it was where he had been sleeping for weeks, now). He closed the curtains, and turned on the lights, and stood back from the mirrored door of the wardrobe.

Mirrored doors. He wasn’t even sure he’d registered that before. Mirrors. Every night when he changed into the soft, gray sleep pants he was embarrassingly attached to, he changed in front of this mirror. He stood in front of it every time he opened it. But we was sure, beyond the shadow of a doubt, tat he’d never looked directly at it. He did that now.

It was still difficult to see his entire face as a whole. He gave himself a break, and though it was only five in the afternoon, slipped into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of bourbon. Thus fortified, he returned to the bedroom.

He set the glass on the bedside table and let himself look at his upper body.

This was strange, as well. All those months of PT in the big room with all the mirrors… and yes, alright, he was always dressed, and he was looking specifically at his form when doing an exercise, the precise angle of his knee or thigh, but it still seemed odd now that he had never really looked at himself in those huge, overwhelming mirrors.

He took a step closer, and turned to examine his left side. It was a mess. It seemed so distant, though. All this gnarled skin, the result of a burn of some kind, and maybe an infection, and then — inexplicably — _grafts_ of some kind, but he remembered absolutely none of it, and couldn’t create what he was seeing to any experience whatsoever. It was strange skin. Not very sensitive to touch, as if he was touching from a great distance, and the pressure was felt an inch beneath the skin.

He could see his older scars, reasonably well, though again, it was hard to see them in relation to the whole. A few bullet wounds here and there, mostly from Afghanistan, but one or two from his time on SWAT. The graze to his arm that he got right before he promised Damon that he’d retire from the Navy.

Shit.

He dropped the towel from around his waist, and felt his eyes widen when he really looked at his right ankle, the scarring from what had to have been months in shackles. How could he not have seen that? He put socks on every fucking day. Had he really gone months without paying attention? And to the wound low on his abdomen that could only have been a knife wound, and how that had missed all his organs he had no fucking clue. He showered, he washed himself, and he never looked at his skin. Or at least not at the big picture. Alaric felt strangely distant from himself, looking from a few feet away, at himself looking at himself in the mirror.

He looked at his face again. It wouldn’t resolve any better than it had before. Like puzzle pieces that were all roughly in the right place, but not yet put together.

He raced back to the bathroom, and dropped to the ground in front of the toilet bowl, barely getting the lid up before the threw up the contents of his stomach, which were quite frankly pretty paltry. He stayed on the ground until he was sure he was done, and then took another shower. This was a puzzle he could solve another day. Right now, he thought takeaway and a movie or three, along with the rest of the bottle of whiskey, was a much better way to pass the time.

 

 

Once Alaric could walk without using crutches at all, and only needed the stick on harder days, he took the detective’s exam, passing the first time with flying colors and being accepted into the homicide unit. He even made a fairly lame effort to have a couple of parties at the house, carefully melding his SWAT family with the new people he was meeting at APD. His new partner, Connor Jordan, ex-Marine, Olympic medallist in being rude and silent in equal measure, was about as friendly as a shithouse rat, and smiled about as often. But he was a decent partner, a hell of a lot more physically able than Alaric, and though Alaric wouldn’t have said they were friendly, they made an adequate team. He knew about as much about Jordan’s private life as he knew about professional wrestling, which was to say nothing at all, but that seemed to suit them both. Jordan never asked him a single question about his tours, just did the heavy lifting when he had to and let Alaric do the heavy thinking. Though Alaric was getting stronger all the time, thanks to a punishing training regime.

He hated the feeling of being less than he’d been, physically, but managed not to talk about it. Just spent long hours in the gym, closing the gap, bringing up his running speed and increasing weights. Besides, it took up so much time, and that meant he didn’t have to think too much, or face the puzzle in the mirror.

He cornered Jeremy, one night, after a few too many drinks.

“Have you heard anything from Damon?” he asked, as carefully as possible. It seemed unlikely that he’d have spoken to Damon and not told Alaric, but some days, Alaric would have preferred bad news to no news at all.

“Not since all the…” Jeremy made a gesture.

“Anything you want to tell me?”

“Only that from what we know about his family, you should move on,” Jeremy said bluntly.

 

 

Six months passed. Alaric and Jordan got eight murder convictions under their belts, impressing everyone roundly, but Alaric was losing his mind. Knowing what he knew, the daily temptation to fly to New York and drag Damon onto a flight to Canada was overwhelming. The irony was not lost on him. He subscribed to the New York Times and read everything he could about organized crime in the city. He never once saw a photograph of Damon, or read his name. The closest he ever came was when Giuseppe Salvatore was dragged into court after three decades-old bodies were found in the basement of a building that was being demolished for redevelopment and he was sentenced to three additional life sentences.

Parole seemed pretty unlikely.

Alaric fantasized for an entire week about trying to go and see Giuseppe Salvatore in jail, but he couldn’t think of a way to do so without drawing attention. He wondered about sending someone else, but who _wouldn’t_ draw attention? Who would visit a man like that in jail? Damon? His brother? There was nothing to suggest he was controlling anything from his maximum security cell, so he couldn’t send another cop. His lawyer? The last one had been a public defender, by all accounts young and green, if determined, and though it seemed that he’d done an adequate job, there wasn’t really a whole lot of defense available, and Alaric could see no reason why he would stick around for more of it.

One Friday night, after work, Alaric limped alone to the cop bar he’d always liked, and took a seat at the bar. He nodded to a few faces he recognized, but he really couldn’t bring himself to sit with anyone.

He knew it wasn’t rational, but he didn’t feel like anyone saw him the way they had before.

Partly, it was Damon. There had been tongues wagging two years ago; though the department wasn’t as bad as it had once been, there were plenty of people around who apparently didn’t like knowing that there were men in their midst who liked other men. Alaric would have cheerfully explained to them that homophobia was not an attractive feature and he was not going to try to get in their pants, but when he thought about how many years he’d spent pretending to be something he wasn’t, he didn’t even know if he had the right to be disappointed by it.

Besides, there was so much more to it, now. Not only did Alaric have the temerity to like dick, he also lacked a cop’s instinct enough so he hadn’t figured out his own partner was corrupt.

Jordan was a bit of an asshole, sure, but he’d never said a word about Damon, never indicated that he’d rather be partnered with someone else, never complained that if a chase got heated he was going to leave Alaric in the dust, and generally respected his abilities as a cop. The relationship might have been cold, but it was functional. Some days, it felt almost smooth.

Alaric finished his bourbon and headed home. The week had been long, and he had a premonition about being called in over the weekend. He needed some extra sleep in the bank.

 

 

True to form, they got a break in the case. On Saturday night. A guy they’d been looking for — a witness, they believed, not the perp — had been spotted, possibly. Of course, ‘possibly’ translated to ‘probably not, but enjoy the stakeout and don’t forget that a bean burrito is not your friend’. Alaric and Jordan were sitting in a car outside an apartment block downtown, mainlining coffee and occasionally debating whether or not one of them should sleep.

Alaric was cursing his periodic insomnia, as Friday night’s plan to get some extra sleep had resulted in an hour trying to find his face in the mirror followed by about six hours of existential dread, staring at the ceiling and debating taking a couple of the oxy pills he still had stashed away for the days his muscles or scars suddenly locked up tight and made it impossible for him to get through a day.

Sitting in a cramped car with nothing to distract him was doing absolutely nothing to keep Alaric awake, and if he drank any more coffee he was going to have to find a bottle to piss in. Which, incidentally, he wasn’t keen to do.

“So you were a SEAL,” Jordan said.

“Yeah.”

“What’d you do?”

“Mostly, rescued Marines who got themselves lost,” Alaric answered, with half a smile. “The rest is classified.”

To his surprise, Jordan chuckled. And then: “I know about your old partner,” he said.

“Everyone knows about my old partner,” Alaric replied, trying not to feel uncomfortable. This was a dramatic deviation from the status quo, in only six words. “And if you have the sudden urge to take advantage of close quarters to give me any kind of crap about it, I should tell you right now I’ve been taking everything out on the heavy bag for almost a year, and though you could probably win in a fair fight, you’d still spend months with your jaw wired shut.”

To Alaric’s surprise, Jordan laughed, quietly. “Chill out, man.”

They were silent again for a good half hour, before Jordan spoke again.

“We’ve been partners for months and we don’t know shit about each other.”

“Figured you liked it that way.”

Jordan shrugged. “I’m a pretty private person.”

“I respect that.”

An hour later: “Did he do it?”

“No. No way in hell.”

“So why’d he run?”

Alaric shifted in his seat. The daily urge to defend Damon was overwhelming. To tell Jordan his theory. No, not his theory; he was absolutely convinced. But he had no idea who he could trust, overall, and no idea whether he could trust Jordan, specifically.

“Too much evidence, however that happened. It’ll all come out one day.”

“Hope so.”

Alaric turned to Jordan, surprised, but mostly, bemused, since the guy really didn’t seem to give a fuck about anything except his arrest record, and that had been damn near empathetic. Brief, but heartfelt.

“I think that’s our guy,” Alaric said, raising his binoculars. “Yeah, he’s wearing a plaster cast. You ready to jump out when we’re close?”

“Drive,” Jordan said, and Alaric started the car.

Moments later, Jordan had the guy pinned to the trunk, checking him for weapons, and then handcuffed in the back of Alaric’s car, looking deeply aggrieved. He made some very lame protestations about not saying _nothin’ about nothin’_.

“Yeah, you can do that,” Alaric said. “I mean, technically, my friend here arrested you for accessory after the fact, and… he did read you your Miranda rights, yeah? Jordan? Did you…?”

“Sure did, Detective Saltzman. He has the right to remain silent. I wish he’d exercise it. You got a gag?”

“Pretty sure we’re not allowed to gag him. What’s the time?”

“A little after three on Sunday morning. I’m sure we can find a public defender.”

“A sober one?”

“Well, shit, man, maybe not. But it’s cool. He can wait until Monday. You think he’ll get arraigned Monday morning?”

“He’ll have to be in court then, but it’ll probably take until the afternoon to get a hearing.”

Jordan pretended to ponder that. “But he’s mostly a witness, right? We could let him go?”

“Well, like you said, he’s a person of interest. Unless he gives us something we can work with — and without a lawyer, he might not want to talk — we have to just hold him until his arraignment.”

“I have to work on Monday!” the man squealed, from the back seat.

“It’s okay,” Alaric said kindly, meeting his eyes in the rear view mirror. “I can call your boss. We checked facebook, I know where you work. I’ll tell your boss you have to be in court. I’m sure he’ll understand. A guy with your skills, they’re not gonna fire you. Right?”

He stocked a grocery store.

“Fine, fuck. Fuck!” The guy leaned back in his seat, defeated, and they drove him to the precinct for questioning.

 

 

At six in the morning, they woke up a judge and requested a warrant for the arrest of one very wealthy, very white, very privileged business owner and less than upstanding citizen, responsible for the death of at least one ex-girlfriend and three sexual assaults. By seven, they had pulled him out of his apartment in handcuffs, and were taking him back to the precinct. By eleven, they were starving, and Alaric surprised himself by offering to buy brunch.

Jordan surprised him by agreeing.

They both ordered a huge cooked breakfast, and Alaric drowned his in Tabasco sauce.

He vowed that he’d be in bed by six that night, drugged if necessary, so he would be conscious for the arraignment and in a good position to outline the reasons that bail should be denied.

Jordan surprised him again by talking, about halfway through.

“You seem like a good guy,” he said.

“After this many months, I’m glad you think so,” Alaric replied, drily. “And you, too. I know not everyone in the department is a big fan of mine.”

“I find it hard to believe you could fall for someone capable of a heist that big, is all I’m sayin’.”

It was about the friendliest thing Alaric had heard in months.

“Okay. I appreciate that. Thanks,” he said, making himself a mouthful of bacon, eggs, and really fantastically good sourdough toast.

“I never got the… I mean, it’s gross, to me.”

“Oh, we’re back to me needing to break your jaw.”

“No, no. Not that. All of it. Relationships, sex, it never appealed. Not for me. I mean, to each their own, and I wouldn’t get in the way of anyone being happy. And honestly, I look at a guy like you, who’s been ripped apart by it, and yeah, I’m glad I’ve never wanted to go there. But I’ve been kind of a dick. For months. And you’ve let it slide. This is the last time I’ll bring it up, Ric, but I’m telling you right now, if there’s anything I can do to help you or your boy out, I’ll do it.”

Alaric chewed, thoughtfully, and considered it. What could Jordan do? Talk to Giuseppe? Maybe. Or not, it still sounded risky, sending a cop in.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, making eye contact for a moment. There was no judgement in Jordan’s expression, and the slight edge of fear that Alaric might judge him for his own life, but fuck that.

Jordan shrugged, but Alaric put down his fork, and reached out, gripping his shoulder.

“No,” he said. “ _Thanks_. I know you didn’t say it lightly, and I don’t take it lightly. And I’m low on allies. If there’s ever anything I think you could do to help, I’ll ask.”

Their eyes held for a moment, and Jordan nodded. They spent the rest of the meal in silence, and then Alaric dropped him at home to get some rest.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon is in serious trouble.

Alaric had to admit, work was easier now that the ice had melted somewhat, between himself and his partner. It was easier to talk casually — and that was the sum of it, casual conversation, weekend plans, _did you see the game_ , but it wasn’t the same frigid air he’d been breathing for months and he’d take it — with someone who’d deliberately taken a small blowtorch to the ice.

A few weeks after their spectacular arrest (which had hit the papers, if quietly), they actually went together to the bar, and if the one drink together was near-silent, it was at least a comfortable silence. Jordan excused himself just after seven, but Alaric couldn’t face going home and making dinner, rattling around in his empty house, so he ordered himself a burger and settled in to read the news on his phone. Nothing particularly noteworthy.

He looked up in surprise when Liv sat down to join him. She sat with her face neutral, arms crossed on the table, and Alaric felt a momentary flash of alarm which was immediately followed by something approximating relief.

He liked Liv. Hell, he’d _loved_ Liv. She was a great cop, the best sniper he’d ever trained, and he liked her dry humor. And the way his SWAT family had slowly been withdrawing, it hurt.

“Miss you,” he said, reflexively. “How are you?”

She shrugged. “Not bad. Busy. How’s the detective life treating you?”

“It works,” he said. He could have said so much more.

“I’ll say. Heard you and Luke Cage took down a day-trading rapist. I’m very impressed. Didn’t think you had the smarts to become a real live detective. Did the Navy give you a serum?”

Alaric tried to give her a withering look, but it morphed into a grin. He missed the verbal sparring.

“They call him Luke Cage? Okay. What’s new in your world?” he asked, dunking a couple of fries in a pool of hot sauce.

“Oh, you know. Disrespecting authority like any self-respecting 21st-century girl who knows her worth.” She shrugged, and smiled, and for the first time, Alaric noticed the tension around her eyes.

“You okay, Liv?”

“Long week. It’s fine, nothing a truckload of tequila couldn’t fix. And since that’s my entire plan tonight… well, not the _whole_ plan. Met a dashing fireman this week. You know how good they look, all sooty. Thought I might let him take me home and find out what he’s made of, but I like to keep these things fluid. Hate to lose the spontaneity.”

“Sounds like the Liv we all treasure.” Alaric laughed, and shook his head, taking another bite of what was proving to be a very mediocre burger.

“Our new boss is a total hard-ass, which is to say, he’s a total soft touch compared to the Navy SEAL who used to train us.”

“I’ve heard. I don’t like the sound of it. Don’t slack off, Liv. If any of you get yourselves killed, I will dig you up and bring you back to life just to do drills.”

“I had no idea the Navy taught you necromancy. Hot.” She stole some of his fries, and chased them with a mouthful of his beer.

“You know, much as I’m enjoying the company, I doubt you came to talk about drills. You wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”

“Not really, boss. You know how it goes. When I’ve got something on my mind, I like to deal with it by stewing for a while, getting really drunk and then pretending everything’s fine. It’s suited me for this long, why change things up now?”

“You have a point.” Still, he had a feeling there was more to it.

“I’ve been thinking about Damon,” she admitted.

“Oh. There’s a club for that. It’s called _me_.”

“Right.” She looked up, and held his gaze for a long moment. “I was just thinking that sometimes when you think you know someone… you’re so, so wrong.”

Alaric felt anger curl in his belly, and was about to say something, when Liv shook her head minutely. “I’ll talk to you about it another time. I’m not in the mood. So, are you seeing anyone?”

Alaric refrained from rolling his eyes. It would have been harder, if not for her rapid about-turn. “Don’t even start,” he said.

“I just happen to know there’s a guy in town who you should really meet,” she said.

Alaric’s first instinct was to get up, and walk away. But he knew Liv; she’d pulled this stunt with him before Damon joined the team, light and airy and enjoying interfering, looking for a reaction that was usually much too easy to get out of him. Now she had an intensity about her. It was disconcerting. If Jeremy had put her up to this, he’d have words with them both.

“I’m not interested,” he said, testing.

“I think you will be,” she said, with her face serious. Liv didn’t do serious, unless it was serious. Alaric narrowed his eyes. He had absolutely no idea why she wouldn’t just be blunt. The place was crowded, noisy. Why not just say what she meant? If this was a genuine setup, he was going to be so far beyond pissed.

She held his eyes, and for almost a second, her gaze was close to glassy. Like she was determined to hold back tears. Alaric opened his mouth to ask a direct question, but she reached across the table.

“Damon would want you to meet him,” she said, with gritted teeth. “He would want you to be _happy_.”

Despite the words — maybe partly _because of_ the words, because of the distinctly un-Liv-like expression on her pretty face — Alaric found himself nodding. Damon, wanting him to be happy? The only way he would ever be happy again would be if Damon reappeared.

His heart raced.

Was Damon _here_?

“If you’re sure,” he said, with a shrug.

Liv passed him a scrap of paper. “He’s only in town for the night,” she said. “But he said he’d be willing to meet you in a bar down the street from his hotel. Have fun. Hope it works out. Call me if you want to gossip about it afterwards. Or maybe I’ll see you here on Monday night. Hey, you should finish your dinner, first. Hate for you to look over-eager.”

That sort of declaration would usually have been sealed with a wink, but instead, it was sealed with a firm look, and then she was gone again. And Monday night? Considering how often they crossed paths, that seemed unsettlingly specific. As if they had a prior arrangement.

Maybe she was wearing a wire.

Alaric looked at the scrap. It was a receipt from a hotel a couple of miles away. On the back was a single number: 436.

He pulled out his phone, found the general area without plugging in an address, and found a bar across the road from 436 on the street.

When he looked up, Liv was staring at him from the bar. She nodded, once, without smiling, and Alaric slowly, methodically ate the rest of his meal, before crossing town to the bar.

 

 

He found himself an isolated booth — pure luck, nothing more, someone was leaving and he was faster than any of the irritated people standing around. He ordered a Jack Daniels, neat, double, and tried not to fidget, which was remarkably difficult. He scrolled through his email, and wished he’d signed up for some kind of social media at some point over the last decade so he had something better to do. He debated calling Liv and demanding an explanation, but every time he thought about how careful she’d been, how unlike herself, he stopped short of placing the call. She’d looked… scared, yeah, a little, but mostly determined, and a little pissed, and like she needed Alaric desperately to hear what she wasn’t saying.

He opened the photo app on his phone and flicked through them, for a while. Alaric had never been great with photos. He never thought to take them and always regretted it later. Fortunately, Damon had no grip on the concept of boundaries and used to pick up Alaric’s phone without asking, snapping selfies or capturing group candids (someone always seemed to be making a ridiculous face in those — Damon had a knack). Alaric looked at Damon’s face, in those photographs, and then at himself. He always saw a whole face, in the photos, and it made him think uncomfortably about the puzzle in the mirror, the body he still couldn’t bring himself to look at properly. He stared for a long time at a photo Damon had taken of the two of them, eyes heavy-lidded with sleep and sex, heads on rumpled pillows and both looking supremely content, and Alaric heart clenched hard.

He knew better than to pin his hopes on something like this. And Liv had been cryptic. Was she trying to tell him she was wrong about Damon, that they’d all been wrong, and she was sorry? Was she trying to tell him he was wrong, and Damon was damned? And either way, how would she know, or the guy Alaric was meeting (who hopefully wasn’t going to shoot him in the head in a bar full of witnesses). Alaric absently patted his side, checking his piece hadn’t vanished.

Almost an hour later, not that Alaric had been counting down seconds, a man sat down. About Damon’s height, dark hair, dark eyes, a swagger to his walk which was an extension of a devilish expression.

“Well, you’re about as pretty as Olivia said you’d be,” he said, leering slightly. He had an English accent that sounded reasonably upper-class. Alaric knew nothing about regional accents, but he’d watched enough TV to recognize that this man was educated, and had grown up comfortable, if not wealthy. “Just my type, and I’d wager, _I’m just about yours_. Fantastic.”

Alaric was going to murder Liv. Except. Even if the expression was friendly, the man’s eyes were grim.

“Ric,” Alaric said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand.

“Charmed,” the other man replied, shaking his hand. So. No name. Very cautious. “You lived here long?”

“A few years,” Alaric said. “On and off. When did you get into town?”

“1405,” he said. “I suppose I could say _five past two_ , but Olivia did say you were a military man, and I know how you lot like to be precise about these things.”

“Well, it’s hard to get out of the habit,” Alaric said, as the bartender approached. He had two glasses of whiskey on a tray, and set them down wordlessly. “How do you know Liv?”

“I have an unerring ability to sniff out the most fun person in a two-mile radius, and befriend them. And Liv is definitely fun. You can tell by the hair,” he confided. “I hear you’re in need of some uncomplicated company. I’m not averse.”

“Not sure I’m interested,” Alaric said. He rested his elbows on the table, and folded his arms. “I may need a little convincing.” His lips were set in a straight line, and he didn’t so much as flinch when the man examined the scars on his face, a resumé of pain, the diagrammatic explanation of why it was a really bad idea to fuck with Alaric Saltzman.

“Oh,” the man said, tracing over the back of his hand with one finger. “I think I can make it worth your while. Like I said, I know all about the type of man you like.”

Alaric’s heart beat once, hard, and the man’s eyes went cold, and stern.

“Well, since you put it that way,” he said. His companion shifted slightly around the table, and reached for Alaric’s hip. Alaric tried not to react as careful fingers slid his phone out of his pocket, and pushed it between two seat cushions, and out of sight. “Let’s go.”

 

 

Alaric’s mysterious new friend appeared to have a lot of experience taking strange men back to his hotel room, because he was clearly a method actor; he was almost furtive, fingers tangling in Alaric’s until he felt like someone had noticed, and then letting go again. He stood too close in the elevator, and Alaric decided he probably needed to play along, at least a little. He bumped shoulders and gave the man what he hoped was a fond smile. Once they were out of the elevator, Alaric followed him to a room close to the end of the corridor, and tried very hard not to notice how whenever a three-star hotel tried to look like a five-star hotel, it reminded him of The Shining.

He put the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door, and reached up to press his fingers across Alaric’s lips. Alaric waited cautiously by the door as he pulled a wand out of a duffel bag and began to sweep the room for bugs. Apparently satisfied, he took a deep breath out, and turned the television on. Louder than was very comfortable.

Alaric really didn’t want to know where the man had learned to be this paranoid; or this careful, perhaps.

He was also, apparently, deeply distrustful. He closed all of the heavy curtains, and engaged the interior lock. This was a lot of layers of protection.

“Christ,” he said, rubbing his eyes, as he dropped onto the couch. “This has been complicated. You want something from the mini-bar? Beer? Coffee? A ten-dollar bag of pretzels?”

“You know what, I had all the pretzels I could handle for dinner. I’d really like a name, here. I’m not in a very trusting mood.”

“Special Agent Enzo St. John,” the man said, shaking Alaric’s hand. “And I’m sorry you’re having such a lot of trouble with trust. But I do get it. And conversely, you might be the only person in the country I _do_ trust, right now. By the way, you’ll need to get that phone back. Tomorrow, I’d suggest, all casual. And then you need to keep using it for a few days exactly as you have been, before accidentally destroying it in front of witnesses. You worked Naval Intelligence. I’m sure you can manage.”

“I’m not sure if you’ve watched too many movies, or just enough. Talk,” Alaric said, dropping onto the armchair alongside the couch. He misjudged how soft and deep it would be, and gritted his teeth as his knees complained loudly. The last couple of days had involved more running around than usual, considerably more stairs than Alaric was comfortable with, and since he was undeniably a dumbass, he’d take a long, punishing run the last two nights in a row at the gym. He could almost hear Damon whining about feeling neglected, or explaining in his best mom voice that Alaric was being stupid, draping over his lap on the couch just to keep him still. Fuck, Alaric missed him. Worse than he might have missed a limb, worse than he missed his parents, more than he wanted to know what happened during the year he was missing.

“Well, I suppose the romance is dead,” Enzo said, sadly, and crossed the room to unlock the personal safe in the wardrobe. “I’m having a beer, even if you don’t want one. The week I’ve had, I deserve a week off in the Caribbean, drinking Mai-Tais and having my every whim serviced by a parade of European heirs. But I forebear. Ask me why I forebear, detective.”

“I’m not in the mood for games.”

Enzo reached into his briefcase, an old, battered brown satchel, and pulled out a file. He tossed it on the coffee table and Alaric took it. When he opened it, his immediate reaction was the desire to vomit. The man in the photograph had obviously been tortured. Beaten to within an inch of his life, strangled — probably repeatedly — covered in wounds. And very, very dead. For a terrible moment, Alaric thought Enzo had brought him photographs of Damon’s corpse, but once he was able to think clearly, he could see that this guy was too tall, too thin, and despite the blood matted in it, his hair was probably lighter than Alaric’s.

“Fuck,” he breathed. He’d seen less severe torture in Afghanistan.

Alaric turned the page. The close-up photographs showed enough bruising so that this could only have happened over a long period of time, at least a couple of days. He glanced at the date on the photographs. They were five days old. The photographs had been taken on Monday, at five in the morning.

“What the fuck is this?” Alaric asked.

“That is what’s left of your boyfriend’s handler,” Enzo replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there's been a bit of a break, folks! Between work and another project, I'm shattered. Go ahead and hate me for the cliffhanger, I live on readers' emotions. The next two chapters are written, but need some work; I'm aiming for next weekend.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to see what Damon's been up to.

No matter which way Damon looked at it, there was no one — _no one_ — that he could trust.

He soaked in a bathtub in a three star motel in a very weird little town called Mystic River. The hope had been that if he soaked himself for long enough, the aches and pain would ease their own sweet way out of his muscles, the scratches and abrasions on his body would become miraculously clean without him having to scrub them, and if he was really lucky, the hairdryer would fall in the tub and electrocute him to death. So far, he was 0 for 3, but the bourbon he was slowly drinking his way through was at least taking the edge off.

Moments like this, he liked to wonder what Alaric would be doing, if he was still alive, if he was here. Probably propped up behind him, carefully washing the marks around his wrists and eventually, his ankles, too. Probably something painfully adult like feed him Advil and use an entire tube of antiseptic cream.

He closed his eyes and let him imagine that big, warm chest behind him, the arms around his body, the way Alaric’s breathing seemed to soothe him, always. Well, usually, because the guy was so bone-headed that Damon spent an unreasonable portion of his day pissed off with him about something; vaulting fences, rolling over the front of a car in pursuit of an arms dealer, the usual shit that killed mere mortals. He felt hot tears run over his face, but wiped them away — there were cuts on his face that were stinging enough without adding salt.

“Just be smart,” he heard, somewhere in the back of his head.

It had happened a lot, over the years. Especially when Damon was shit-scared — and for all his bravado, and for the way he’d managed to keep his cover for three years, he was shit-scared a lot of the time — he let himself wonder what Alaric would do, or say, and it felt like he’d summoned Alaric’s ghost, somehow. A warm hand on his shoulder, Alaric’s quiet fortitude and wisdom. In that ridiculous apartment that had turned into a prison, he’d slept at night imagining that overheated octopus snoring in his ear (because despite Alaric’s insistence to the contrary, he’d snored, he had a blushing problem, and there was something wrong with his stomach, the amount of hot sauce he _drank_ ).

What would Alaric do?

The water was getting cold. Damon gave up hoping, and carefully washed his abraded skin, clenching his teeth so he wouldn’t make any noise. And then he crawled out of the tub, wrapped himself in a couple of towels and burrowed under the blankets to get some sleep. Maybe in the morning he’d feel better.

 

 

In the morning, he felt significantly worse, but at least he sort of had a plan. If not for his long-term survival, then certainly one to get him through the next few days without dying of sepsis or being taken down in a shower of bullets.

He walked into what passed for a shopping district (weirdly, a lot of gift shops, like this was a genuine tourist town — not Damon’s style, but who was he to judge? Boring people deserved vacations too) and found a pharmacy. He stocked up on first aid supplies, planning a spiel about a car accident (which could explain his face) and an injured friend (which explained buying a fuckton of bandages and an economy tube of Neosporin) but the girl on the cash register barely made eye contact with him until he handed her some cash.

“We’ve got a special on Vitamins,” she said, glancing at his split lip, split eyebrow and the bruised graze across his cheek.

“I eat plenty of vegetables,” he deadpanned.

“Huh?”

“I’ll be fine.” He took his change, left the coins and headed back out into the street.

Next up was clothing. He was about to walk into a big box clothing place (how low could he actually fall? They sold _t-shirts_ in packs of **_se_** _ven_ ) when he spotted a goodwill store (oh! That was how low he could fall) and headed in there instead, assuming he’d blend in better if his clothes didn’t look new.

He was about to march straight past the ugly plaid flannels (what was Ric thinking) when his hand darted out to touch one. Just a little bit of comfort.

He could wear plaid. He’d look ridiculous — this was not 1999 — but somehow, wearing a shirt Ric might have picked eased his soul a bit. He took four, old and worn and soft, and a couple of pairs of jeans that were frayed at the hem and worn at the knee.

Second-hand shoes. Second-hand shoes! They’d had someone else’s **_feet_** in them! He shuddered. He was not buying second-hand shoes or socks. He needed something a lot more comfortable than the leather shoes he’d been wearing for the last couple of weeks, something he could move faster in, and the big box store was just going to have to do.

“Can I help you with — oh, son, what happened to you?” asked an old man, hanging t-shirts. He probably had a foot on Damon; broad and strong, like he’d been a farmer until arthritis took his hands, which were work-worn and lumpy. His hair was still thick, but it was white.

Damon gave a rueful smile. “Car accident. It’s been quite a couple of days. My suitcase got stolen out of the wreck. Some holiday.”

The man nodded dubiously, and caught sight of one of Damon’s wrists, sneaking out from his shirt. “I could use a couple of sweaters.”

“You could use a jacket, too,” the man said. “Actually got something you might like, just came in yesterday.” He limped out the back, and returned with a battered brown leather jacket Damon loved on sight. He could feel Ric’s approving sigh in his ear.

“Sometimes these vintage store owners buy up all the best stuff, drive it back to Brooklyn or what have you and triple the price, so I keep the best things hidden. Hipsters,” he said, letting Damon try on the jacket. It smelled faintly like port tobacco. “You got money?”

“Yeah. Lost my wallet, but I still have some cash. I’ll take this.”

The man carefully began to enter the prices of Damon’s brand new wardrobe on a Jurassic-era cash register. He clocked the blood on one of Damon’s bills, and shot another look at his face.

“You have had a week,” he said, nodding slowly, though his jowls still shuddered. “Not for nothing, but there’s a free feed at the church every night, if your cash runs out.”

Damon felt a miserable cramp in his gut. “Thanks,” he said, dispassionately. “I’ll be alright.”

The old man gave him back a little too much change, and for a moment, he cupped Damon’s wrist in his hand. Damon flinched, and the pain made his attempt at a smile come out more like a grimace. “They got a counsellor, too. Help you out with legal aid, get you somewhere safe…”

The old man’s eyes were much too sharp. “Like I said, I’ll be fine.”

“It’s just,” he started. “Well, if you’re running from something… someone,” he said. “I know you might feel alone, but it doesn’t mean you’re alone. I know some good people.”

Damon felt a brief and almost unbearable urge to sob into the old guy’s shoulder for a couple of hours, but he couldn’t.

“You’re a good guy,” he said, after a long silence. Imagine being the son of a man like that. Alaric’s dad was probably just like that. Calm and mountainous, kind and strong. “Thanks for the jacket.”

 

 

After a quick lunch in a café which redefined kitsch, Damon pick-pocketed a cell phone. It took him a good half hour of paying close attention before he spotted someone with an old-fashioned flip phone that didn’t need a security code (bonus; it would take someone who cared that little about their phone a while to realize it was missing). He walked back to the motel and sat on the bed, staring at the screen for a good fifteen minutes and trying to decide who to call.

Any one of the people on his so-called team could have been corrupt. In fact, he was unreasonably sure that all, or almost all probably were. No matter how he sliced it, he’d been thoroughly fucked over. And no matter how many times he went over it all in his head, he had no idea who in the entire world he could trust.

He decided to put off the decision while he bandaged his wrists and ankles, covered a very nasty graze on his thigh, and carefully closed his eyebrow with a stick-on suture. He could almost convince himself he looked rakish, if his eyes weren’t so haunted.

The first number he tried was for the voicemail service he and Shane had used before they switched protocols. Unsurprisingly, there were no messages, and he ended the call as soon as he heard the word ‘zero’.

Damon spent a good long time thinking about the old APD SWAT family. If he called Jeremy, if he called Tyler… yeah, his story sounded fucking insane, but maybe they’d believe it for Alaric’s sake. Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they’d trick him into giving himself up — Damon had no doubt that if he ever saw the inside of a jail cell, he wouldn’t last the night. No, twenty times worse; maybe they’d try to help and wind up like Atticus had. Fuck. No, he wouldn’t do it. He had a weird feeling that if he ever placed those guys in danger, he’d never be able to conjure Ric’s voice again.

He agonized over the second call, having made the decision not to try Atlanta. Without a lot of options left he dialed the New York office of the FBI. The public number.

“Hi, yeah. I’m looking for special agent Lorenzo St. John,” he said, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“Hold, please,” said a pleasant voice, and a few moments later, the phone was ringing again. Damon counted down seconds. Once the call had been made, they’d need about fifteen seconds. Nine… ten… eleven…

“How may I direct your call?”

“I’m looking for special agent Enzo St. John.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not seeing ——”

Damon ended the call, fear gripping his throat. Was that fifteen seconds? Or did the count start from before the phone was answered the first time? He couldn’t even think straight. Pain had him loopy, but he knew full well that pain killers would be even worse. At least, the kind that actually worked. He dropped the phone on the ground and smashed it with his foot, repeatedly, and then pulled out the sim card. He dropped it in an ugly glass ashtray and set fire to it.

Fuck. Fuck!

Still, it could answer a question he had.

So as soon as night fell, Damon hid in some bushes across the road from the motel. In one hand, he clutched the parent half of a baby monitor. He sat for hours, ignoring the rising pain in his muscles, and the hunger pangs, and his monumental exhaustion, and he watched.

His heart broke just a little before midnight, when two men in black suits stepped out of a very loudly unmarked vehicle. It broke a second time ten minutes later when through the baby monitor, he heard the unmistakable sound of two silenced bullets entering a duvet stretched over two pillows and a scruffy black wig.

He really needed to find someone to trust, and soon.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They need a plan.

Alaric’s skin prickled all over, and his vision blurred. “Where’s Damon?”

Enzo took a breath, and scratched the back of his neck, and probably swallowed half the beer in one long pull.

“If I knew that, I’d try to extract him myself.”

“Alright,” Alaric said. “I’m not in the mood to play games, here, Enzo. I’m not even gonna ask you questions. I just need you to tell me everything you know, starting from the beginning.”

Enzo sighed. “You really might want a drink,” he said, but he didn’t press it, and he started to spill.

“I imagine you guessed the beginning,” he said. “The way I hear it, Damon was destroyed, when you, uh, died. Not the way the records show. He didn’t start hauling off to attack everyone who spoke to him until he’d been approached by the joint task force. His family name, his looks… he was the perfect package. So we staged the robbery, and before APD could arrest him, we had him settled in a very nice apartment in New York. He had to look like he’d made a killing, obviously. And then he dangled himself like bait, and they took it.”

Alaric nodded. Yeah, this was what he’d assumed, so far. “So, what are they into?”

“Well, you know what they say about organized crime.”

“That it’s disorganized as hell. And they’re not generally that picky.” He needed to move. He stood up, and started to pace, ignoring the creaking in his knees, and the dizziness he felt every time he remembered the pictures in that damn file.

“That’s about the size of it. Arms, drugs, protection rackets… anything to make a buck. Damon’s mostly been working in what they would loosely call the drugs division, but he’s been doing everything he can to ingratiate himself with the higher-ups. They trust him enough so he’s been sent to watch the boss’s wild child of a daughter when she gets out frolicking with the tarts she calls her friends, a few times. We nearly got in a spot of bother about twelve months in when he got himself arrested for breaking the nose — and wrist, and three fingers — of some thug who came on a bit too strong at a club one night. The warrants are still active, you see.”

Alaric nodded again. “Alright. Look, I can piece this stuff together myself. Standard UC work. Can you get to why the hell you flew halfway across the country to pull me into this? His handler’s dead, okay, I get that, but there should be someone else who can step in. You, for example. Send someone in, extract him, stick him in witness protection, and we’re done.”

Enzo shook his head. “I wish it was that simple, mate.” He drained his bottle and eyed the bar fridge, before deciding against a second drink. “He’s been under for almost three years, now, but about a year ago, things started to go wrong. At our end, and then his. On our end, it was evidence disappearing, intel getting scrambled, protocols being broken. On his, a few of the lower bosses turned up dead over a period of a few months and everyone else went to ground, for months. Damon stopped making contact. Some of the team thought he’d crossed the thin blue line, but I trust him. Who I don’t trust is everyone else on the team. I doubt they’re all pocketing bribes, but I don’t know which ones to trust. And I have to assume that at some point, the family realized there was a mole. Whether they figured out it’s Damon or not, I have no fucking clue, but I can’t make contact, and I don’t have a next play.”

Alaric dropped onto the armchair again, exhausted.

“What’s their contact protocol?”

“No one fucking knows,” Enzo said. “Or don’t you think I’d have hauled him out, by now? Pretty sure that the last few months, he’s only trusted his own handler. Not even me. They changed the protocol and never told a soul. And now…” Enzo gestured helplessly at the file. “You might have noticed, I’m a bit paranoid.”

“Gosh,” Alaric deadpanned.

“The reason I’m paranoid is this: there is no reason to believe that anyone outside of our task force knew a single thing about Damon, or who his handler was. Which means we’re fucked, because it’s someone on the inside who handed over the handler’s identity, or else someone on the inside who tore the man apart. I’m here on the false pretense that my mother is ill. My mother is actually long dead, and resting peacefully in England, which someone will figure out sooner or later… I do have an answer when they do, but it’s weak. Anyway that’s all irrelevant. Damon needs an extraction, before he’s dead too.

“He hasn’t been to his apartment in a couple of weeks. I assume it’s compromised. And I assume your place is, too. Passive surveillance, harder to detect. The phone is tapped, I’m sure of that, but I have another for you. It’s secure.” He pulled it out of his briefcase and tossed the phone to Alaric. “For now. And I have a bug sweeper for you.” This, he passed over. “I assume you know how to deal with them?”

“Naval Intelligence,” he said numbly, nodding.

“An oxymoron if ever I heard one.”

Alaric felt sick. If his home had been violated, he was going to tear someone apart. He tried to think back over the last few months, if there had ever been a time when he felt as if there had been someone in the house while he was out, but the truth was he was so exhausted most of the time, by design, that he probably wasn’t paying enough attention. Certainly, the alarm had never been tripped, but if these guys were this far up the food chain that wouldn’t be a barrier.

He leaned heavily into the back of the armchair, and scrubbed a hand across his face. This was so much worse than he’d imagined.

“So it’s true, then. You never gave up on him.”

Alaric shook his head.

“I heard you were poking around, a while back, but there was never any chance you might find him — this operation was too big and too important. And now, if he gets himself killed —”

“You mean, if your joint task force’s _corruption_ gets him killed?”

“Well, yes. But if he doesn’t make it out, I’m rather concerned there’ll be no paperwork anywhere that proves he was ever one of ours. That would keep things tidy. He’s probably safer with the mob than he would be outside of it, right now.” He sounded so offhand that Alaric’s anger got the better of him, and he was back on his feet.

“Honestly, fuck you. Fuck you all. He shouldn’t have been put in this position,” he said, or rather, snarled. “His father has enemies — I know you used that to your advantage, but can you even fathom what risk that posed to him?”

“When he agreed to join us, he was certain he had nothing left to live for,” Enzo replied, simply. “And before you raise your voice again, I’d like very much to remind you that I’m on your side in this. Damon went in with his eyes open. He knew the risks. He’s saved lives, here. We have eleven people in protective custody ready to face charges under the RICO act who Damon was supposed to have killed, on the command of the Capo. And the last credible bit of intelligence that I got from his handler was that Damon thought the family was likely to join with a larger cartel that was involved in sex trafficking. He was passionate about this work, Alaric. His eyes have been wide open since the beginning. He knew he was ruining his life from the moment he let us set him up for the theft of millions of dollars worth of methamphetamine, and a whole lot of dirty money. He just wanted to do something that mattered.”

Alaric felt tears burn his eyes. Damon was reckless, and impulsive, and he cared about people more than he’d ever let anyone know — he could be mean as a cut snake when he was in a mood, but Alaric had watched him put himself in the line of fire for people on his team, or for civilians, so many times now he couldn’t even count.

Enzo sounded cautious, when he spoke again. “I know this might not be the most reassuring thing to hear. But you should know, if he doesn’t make it out, he’d have no regrets.”

 _Except for one_ , Alaric wanted to say. Because they’d had a handful of months together, and deserved so much more.

“But you, you will,” Enzo said, quietly.

Enzo leaned forward on his chair, and rubbed his hands together.

“I’ll tell you the truth, I think you have a better than even chance of ending up dead if you try to get him out. It’s your decision, mate, just like it’s my decision whether I get on a plane back to New York, or head for England instead. I still haven’t decided.”

Alaric took a deep breath in, and then released it. He reached for the file again, trying to stop his hands from shaking. He looked over the photographs, and counted his breaths, trying to stave away both oxygen deprivation and tears.

“Have you ever seen this torture signature before?” he asked.

Enzo stalled, and frowned. “Interesting question. Might not be easy to answer.”

“Fine. Then basics. What was the cause of death?”

Enzo perched on the arm of a chair. “Heart failure, probably, although official word hadn’t come down when I left the city. Those photographs were taken when he’d been dead maybe 12 hours.”

Alaric nodded, slowly. “But he was tortured. And died from that. I’m guessing you’ve been in organized crime in the city for years.”

“You gather correctly.”

“So — tell me about torture victims who show up dead. How do they die?”

“Well, mate, either it’s heart failure, or a bullet to the — …”

Alaric nodded. “Were there any bullet wounds?” He turned to the preliminary autopsy findings. Blunt force trauma, stab wounds to non-vital areas, deep lacerations, broken bones — Christ, how had the guy lived as long as he did? — But no bullet wounds.

“Tell them what they want to know, and they shoot you in the head. Stay quiet, and they keep going until your body gives up. Which means Damon’s handler didn’t give him up.”

Enzo sat rigidly, staring at nothing.

“I think you might be onto something. And it’s the cheeriest news I’ve heard all week, if I’m honest.”

Not especially cheery, Alaric thought, but he’d take what he could get.

“If you have anyone here you trust… use them. Not sure you can do this alone. And if I help, I’m a dead man.”

Alaric nodded as Enzo handed him another file. “Couldn’t get hold of the official one. This is copies of all my own notes. Suspicions. Everything I can think of. I hope it’s enough.”

There didn’t seem to be much left to say, after that.

“Not to be indelicate. But when you take the opportunity to, uh, get your needs met, do you generally stay the night?”

Alaric spent a moment confused, and then shook his head. “I haven’t been with anyone since…” He’s not even sure how to finish the sentence. Since the Navy called him back? Since he died? Since he rose from the dead? Since his body was ravaged with scars he doesn’t know the origin of? Since Damon, that’s the only way to finish it.

Enzo raised his eyebrows, giving Alaric the once-over like he didn’t quite believe it. But Alaric’s expression was steady, and eventually, Enzo just nodded.

“Then we’ll spend another half an hour here, and then you can go.”

Alaric read over the files, occasionally asking a question, occasionally scribbling a note, with one eye on the time. He refused Enzo’s offer of a drink twice more, until Enzo gave up.

“I’m gonna leave,” Alaric said, almost half an hour later. “I don’t know how long a hook-up takes in this day and age, but if anyone’s paying attention, I think we’re fine.”

“Off you go, then. And do try to look like I rocked your world, there’s a dear,” Enzo replied.

Alaric shuffled the papers back into a pile, and folded them until he could slip them into his shirt without ruining the line. He walked to the door, and disengaged the security chain.

“Thanks,” he said, with a hand on the doorknob.

“Don’t thank me. I already told you, I think there’s a better-than-even chance you’ll be dead within a week of hitting the city.” But he nodded an affirmation, and Alaric pulled the door closed behind him.

 

 

Trying to make the day look like a normal day wasn’t exactly easy.

Alaric vacuumed. Every room, including the bedroom he couldn’t bear to sleep in, with the music up loud enough so that the passive surveillance would register on the sweeper. It took well over three hours for him to find ten listening devices, but he was relieved to find he didn’t have to worry about video.

He left the house, then, went to a garden center nearby to buy some seedlings. Working over the garden beds had been a stress relief for the last few weeks, and he would have been ready to plant lettuce and tomatoes even without the need for a ruse. After carefully collecting up all but three of the bugs, strategically close together, he planted the rest in the vegetable patch. Maybe he’d grow heirloom tomatoes that could also listen in on the neighbors. What Alaric knew about growing vegetables could fit in a business-size envelope (literally; that was what he kept his notes in).

At four in the afternoon, with aching legs, he drove back to the bar he’d been in the night before to ask if his phone had been found. It hadn’t. He made a point of poking around the booth he’d been sitting in with Enzo. It was gone.

Well, that was interesting. Maybe it had been retrieved; maybe it had been stolen. Either way, it solved his problem. Everything valuable was backed up on his computer anyway. He was going to have to make a show of tracking the location, but being unable to find it wouldn’t be a serious problem.

Back home, he started a new Skype account, just to be on the ridiculously safe side — after all, he hadn’t used it since he left the country —and placed a call.

“Liv,” he said, when she picked up.

“I don’t generally answer the phone for private numbers,” she replied, flatly.

“I lost my phone. It’s Ric.”

Liv paused. “Oh. So, did you have fun last night?”

“Scratched the itch,” he said. “Listen, do you want to spar tomorrow? We haven’t done that since I got back.”

In fact, they’d rarely done that ever, and even back in the day, she’d had to be encouraged via a double-dog-dare with a cash incentive. She took a moment to orient herself.

“On a Sunday? You’re not my training officer anymore. You’re just a gimpy detective.”

“Hey. That’s Commander Gimpy Detective Saltzman to you. Look, I’m just… I don’t like that your training officer isn’t drilling you hard.”

She paused again. “Fine, fine, it’s not like I’m expecting to be nursing a hangover tomorrow anyway. The usual place?”

The usual place was the precinct. Which, no. “Actually I’ve been using a gym close to my place. It’s good. I’ll text the address,” he said. Fuck, he hadn’t thought about a time. He thought frantically; after so many months trying to use the place when it was quietest, now he was trying to remember when it was busiest.

“Say 11am?”

“Oh, my god, what did I ever do to you? Is there even an eleven am on Sunday?”

“I love it when you whine. Motivates me to work you harder,” Alaric said, and ended the call, and promptly logged off.

He spent a good half-hour in the kitchen, with the usual radio station playing ‘oldies’ (also, fuck that — nothing from the nineties was old enough to be called oldies. These fucking children. Smashing Pumpkins were still as relevant as ever, and Nirvana would never be done with), chopping up a mountain of salad vegetables. Add chicken, add seeds, add a dressing that would come damn close to realigning the Scoville scale, and Alaric sat down to stare blankly at a documentary series on Netflix, for a few hours, while willing his blood pressure to decline back into the safety zone.

 

 

About 9pm, he used another service to send a message to Jordan. On the phone, this time. He hoped to god Enzo was right about it being secure. He asked Jordan to meet him, left an address, a time, and signed it ‘R’.

 

 

Alaric had spent thirty minutes on the stationary bike, partly warming up and partly just needing to burn off some steam (while ignoring his knees) by the time Liv strutted out of the changing room, in a tank and leggings that stopped halfway down her calves. She raised her eyebrows and Alaric nodded, sitting her down to wrap her knuckles. There was no one close by.

“You’d better not have your phone on you. I like your brother, but if he sends a message saying you’re urgently needed elsewhere, I’m gonna assume you asked him to.”

Liv rolled her eyes. “Give me some fucking credit. I _accidentally_ left it at home. What’s the story, boss?”

“Damon’s undercover. I’m guessing you know that part by now,” Alaric said, strapping her hands carefully. “My place is bugged. I know you’d probably rather fake this out, but at this point, I’m assuming the bad guys — at least, the ones with badges — are paying attention. Might be over the top but I don’t give a fuck. So we’re sparring,” he said, and helped Liv get her gloves on, leading her to the heavy bag.

“That’s fine. Just don’t expect me to pull my punches,” she said, and started to attack the heavy bag.

Fuck, but she was good. It had always been a frustration; she was the best sniper on the team, bar Alaric, and he had to admit that he didn’t really want to have to test himself against her in case he was wrong about that. But she was good at hand to hand, as well. Another four of her on the team would have made them so much better. Maybe one day he’d find a way to ask her how she’d ended up a cop, but as private as Liv was about anything real, Alaric doubted he’d get a serious answer.

“What’s the story?” she asked, keeping up a brutal rhythm.

“His handler was tortured to death. He might not have given Damon up, probably died before he could. But Damon needs an extraction. I wish I could say I trust the old team, but as far as I can tell, they all believe he’s dirty, and I’m not risking them turning him in to APD.”

“Yeah,” Liv said, turning for a roundhouse kick; some serious power behind it. “They do. But you’ve gotta understand, he was acting like a complete dick. Even I believed it.”

“Until his little friend showed up.”

“No,” she said. “I just don’t believe you could be that much of a chump. I tried to. But I didn’t. So. This is me preemptively saying that as long as the odds of me ending up dead are fifty percent or lower, I’m in.”

“We need to have a long conversation about self-preservation sometime.” He held the bag for a while longer, until one of the trainers waved him over, to let him know they had a ring.

Alaric put his gloves on over the thick bandages and they climbed into the ring.

“If I think for a second that you _are_ pulling your punches, I will make you pay,” Alaric said, as they bumped gloves.

“Same,” Liv replied drily, and immediately launched into a vicious attack, enough so that they drew eyes from all over the gym, more than a few cheers. Alaric’s legs were screaming, but he couldn’t conceal his grin, and as hard as it was, he didn’t hold back. But less of them landed than he might have thought. She might have bitched about training, but she clearly hadn’t slacked off at all. Over the years, though, Liv had proven to be more like Alaric than he might have been prepared to admit a few years back. She had this thing about her, like she thought she’d probably die, and even if she’d made peace with that a little, she was determined to go down fighting.

To anyone else, their whispered conversations probably sounded like swagger, but within twenty minutes Liv knew as much as Alaric did, and had offered up some insights of her own.

When they finally agreed to be done, they were both smiling. And some combination of that, and the possibility of getting Damon home, had Alaric breathing easier than he had in months. They bumped gloves.

“We should get something to eat,” Alaric said.

Liv nodded. “Nothing like beating the crap out of a Navy SEAL to whet a girl’s appetite,” she said breezily, and headed for the changing rooms, hips swinging back and forth as she went, ignoring the half-dozen guys who dared make a move to talk to her.

 

 

As planned, they arrived at a specific diner at a specific time, and less than ten minutes later, Jordan joined them. He looked apprehensive, when he saw Liv, but shrugged and sat down.

Alaric gestured to his ear as if he was holding a phone, and Jordan rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Didn’t figure you were asking me on a date, Saltzman. Unless I’m working, my phone’s usually off, and at home. Chill.”

A waitress approached. As much as they needed the cover, they were all voracious eaters, too, so there was a feast on the way. The place was quiet (actually, for good reason; no one would be rushing off after lunch to rate the place five stars on Yelp), so it was easy enough for Alaric to make his tongue wag.

“He’s in trouble,” Alaric said, not bothering with the name. “His handler was tortured to death. They changed contact protocols a few months back without telling anyone, and now he’s on his own in there. He needs an extraction and I don’t think I have a hope in hell of doing it on my own.”

He took a breath.

“Look. Connor. I know you offered, and Liv, I know St. John kinda recruited you. But it’s been pointed out to me that there’s an unreasonable chance that I might end up dead if I even try this, and that goes for you guys, too. So… I’m not too proud to ask you to help. But I’m much too practical not to tell you that you’d be _insane_ to go along with this. And if you don’t wanna… just leave right now before you know enough to make you interesting.”

Jordan crossed his arms. He didn’t look any warmer than he ever had, in all the months (fuck, it was almost a year, now) that he’d been partnered with Alaric. But he nodded, without a lot of thought.

“I’m in.”

“Me too,” Liv added. “Of course I’m in. I’d be in even if you hadn’t let me beat you up first. Look, I know, I believed what they were saying about him and that makes me a shitty friend. But… you know what, fuck this noise, I’m not an apologizer. Just tell me what the plan is now.”

Plan? Fuck. He didn’t even have a plan to get them to New York without raising red flags, let alone find Damon.

“My place is bugged. But I don’t like us talking out here in the open.”

“So bring all the files to my place. Luke’s staying with his PT boyfriend. I’m just waiting for him to tell me he’s moving out, at this point. He won’t come home.” Liv shrugged. Alaric winced; she and her twin were close. He doubted she was relishing the idea of them living apart. Still, though Luke wasn’t exactly the type to call the captain and rat them out, he didn’t relish the thought of the guy coming home and asking what they were doing.

“Jordan?”

“Don’t look at me. I live with two cops. So maybe her place is a good call.”

“Alright. I’ll see you guys there in a couple of hours,” Alaric said. “I’ll bring pizza or something. A couple of DVDs, in case anyone’s paying attention.”

“Ric,” Liv said, very seriously. “No one, and I mean no one, rents DVDs anymore. You might as well carry a DVD case that says _prop_. It’s all about Netflix. I swear, one day I’m writing you a handbook on living like a normal person.”

She scribbled her address on a napkin and pushed it across the table to Jordan.

“And if either of you says a single word about my herb garden, or so much as thinks about stepping on my begonias, I will light you both on fire. With my mind.”

She left first.

“She’s starting to grow on me,” Connor said, pulling a twenty out of his wallet. “See you soon, Saltzman.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thanks for your patience on this one -- I got swallowed up by a McDanno AU I published in full recently. Back onto writing my WIPs now. Thanks for sticking with me!


	17. Chapter 17

Alaric looked over the photographs one more time, but there was still nothing more he could see in them, and every time he looked again, it felt like he was one more step closer to finding Damon in the same state. He eyed the bottle of beer he’d opened hours ago and had barely a mouthful of, and contemplated starting another pot of coffee.

“In summary,” Liv started.

“Don’t.”

“In summary,” she said again, “New York City has about as many places mobsters might hang out in as they have mobsters. We have _no_ idea if Damon is still undercover. We have _no_ plan. We have _no_ allies, except Enzo, and his phone’s been disconnected because he’s not a complete idiot. And none of the John Does across all of New York City that even vaguely match Damon’s description are him. Which I think we can all be happy about. Nice to have a bright spot.”

“Thanks, I didn’t need to hear any of that,” Alaric said. “Really, thanks. Do you think I don’t know?”

“Bright spot,” Connor echoed.

Liv leaned forward in her armchair and reached for the last slice of very cold pizza.

“You know him better than anyone, Ric,” she said.

He didn’t reply. Maybe? Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. He dropped onto the couch. “We had a few months together, Liv. This is fucking insane shit.”

“Ah, but true love conquers all. Tell me something. Alternate universe where the two of you sappy fucks had magic phones you could communicate with, without anyone finding out. You message daily.”

Nice fantasy. Alaric yawned.

“No, really. Say what you want about Damon… and I have, loudly, and repeatedly. Also, I was there when he found out you were dead, and let me be real upfront here and tell you that his face was not the face of a man who had been enjoying an extended fling. Get me? So, tell me, Ric. In this alternate universe where he can ask you what to do — what would you tell him to do?”

“I’m so lost.”

“Then I’ll keep it simple. Would you tell him to stay undercover? Would you tell him to hide? Would you tell him to find someone to trust?”

Alaric was too tired for whatever fuckery this was. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’d tell him to come to me.”

“So I actually need the caveat of ‘ _he can’t get to you_ ’? Really?”

Connor snorted.

“Fine. I’d tell him to run.”

Liv was quiet.

“I’d tell him to run and hide. Trust no one.”

“No one.”

Alaric stared at the photos. The ruined hands of Damon’s handler, broken fingers and shattered metacarpals. The wide open eyes, the carefully placed, shallow cuts all over his torso.

“I have an idea,” Liv said. “You two losers, go home. Ric, I’ll call you in the morning.”

Alaric balked. He really didn’t want to leave. He had this idea, this magical thought that if he stuck around for long enough, stared hard enough, Damon would just come home.

“Do I have to say it louder?” Liv snapped.

Jordan shrugged, and left. Alaric collected the photos, and the files, and piled them into a folder.

“Liv… tell me you’re not gonna do something dangerous, here.”

“Please, I eat danger for breakfast. When I’m out of Lucky Charms. Fuck, I’m hungry again. Will you just leave, Ric? I need some sleep and then I have some sucking up to do.”

 

 

Back home, Alaric took a long shower.

He closed his eyes, and ran his fingers over his scars. He still couldn’t quite remember what they looked like — trying to picture them produced nothing in his head but the static of a television set after midnight when he was a kid — but he was more intimately familiar with the shape now than he’d ever been. He stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom he’d been using for a long moment, with his pajama pants in his hand.

He could see the scar. The outline. The ropy ridges, the deep purples, the white skin that would never take a pigment again.

Alaric looked at his face. He forced himself to hold his own eyes, and then to look over the skin. His face wouldn’t become a whole, refused to, but for the first time, he had a sense of being able to see the overall structure.

He’d never been a particularly attractive guy. He had a nice smile, he’d been told, but he was more or less certain that anyone who found him attractive had to know him pretty well first. He had a good heart, he knew that much. But he was ordinary. Mousy dark blond hair and eyes that were hazel in the most nondescript sense of the term.

Didn’t change the fact that the way he looked now was very, very far from attractive. Scarred up, damaged, broken. But at least he had a better sense now of the overall picture.

He threw up twice, brushed his teeth again, and climbed into bed.

 

 

Alaric dragged himself to work in the morning, exhausted and miserable. He had congratulated himself repeatedly on having slept for a total of forty minutes, in three-minute shifts. He was going to be useless all day. He scrubbed a hand over his face and reached or his coffee mug, and the caffeine pills he knew he was going to need to get through the morning (the afternoon was probably going to require breaking into the evidence locker to steal some cocaine) and grunted at Jordan, dropping into his desk chair.

“Heard from your firecracker?”

Alaric shook his head, and the two of them were silent for a good two hours, working through emails and a couple of incident reports from the week before. By noon, Alaric had drunk so much coffee that he was vibrating, though that didn’t seem to do anything to wake him up. He was heading for a seizure.

He texted Liv half a dozen times, but didn’t hear anything until eight o’clock that night.

 

 

Elijah Mikaelson was an investigative reporter. Even Alaric knew his name. He hailed from a small town in Virginia and had spent most of his life in New Orleans, but he traveled anywhere he could find a story. And apparently — Alaric really didn’t want to ask too many questions — he owed Liv a favor.

The three of them met in a café a few minutes after seven the following morning. Alaric was feeling considerably better, after a solid five and a half hour stint of sleep. Sadly he didn’t _look_ any better, but he was prepared to roll with it.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Elijah said. He had an accent that was almost indefinable; the result, Alaric thought, of an English education and a nomadic life. “Your story is a very interesting one.”

Alaric glared at Liv. “Can I talk to you?” he asked. Smiling like a shark might. “Alone?”

“This was your idea,” was her only answer.

“It was my idea to do an interview with an _investigative journalist?_ ”

Liv shrugged.

Elijah summoned a waiter with barely a tilt of his head, and Alaric literally watched hearts fly out of her eyes as she fumbled for her order pad. Elijah was a good-looking guy, no question, but it seemed his charisma gave him an overall gleam that went beyond symmetrical features and a strong jaw. “Coffee all around,” he said. “You might bring a small selection of pastries? I sense an overall lack of blood sugar amongst my colleagues. Thank you.”

She wandered off looking like she’d been roofied, but was feeling pretty cheerful about it. Alaric glanced at Liv, and she shrugged.

Elijah produced a very expensive-looking notebook out of apparently nowhere and opened it on the table. “Miss Parker has suggested I would do well to be circumspect, but it’s simply not my style. By some appalling oversight, the same media that reported on your tragic death completely failed to notice your miraculous resurrection. It’s the sort of story people adore. I remain freelance, but my reporting is syndicated across the country. If I decide that something should go viral… well, it simply does.”

“I’m not interested in publicity,” Alaric started.

“But you _are_. Because you are absent one romantic partner, who if I understand correctly, is a compass, for which you are his magnetic north. A week of publicity — you will hate every minute, but you will survive — and he will find his way back to you. While I win a prize or two.”

Alaric froze, and his gaze shifted from Elijah to Liv and back again.

“I’m not an idiot, Ric,” she said, and then fell silent as the waiter brought their order. “We have a needle in a haystack, and the best way to find it is with a metal detector. Bring _him_ to _you_. You know he’s in hiding. You said it yourself. You’d tell him to hide, if you were him.”

No, Alaric didn’t know that. At all. The chances were actually excellent that Damon’s body would be found in the east river in a few months. Or maybe the reservoir in Central Park.

But if he was out? If he _was_ hiding?

Alaric took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let it out again. It felt as though Elijah was anticipating an actual answer, but… apparently not.

“I have excellent connections,” Elijah said. “Spent a significant amount of time in Kabul, until I decided to return to my family before I found myself the subject of the evening news, instead of reporting it. I may well know more about the year you claim to have forgotten than you do.”

“It’s not a claim,” Alaric snarled. “I have no idea what happened to me in that year. The Navy debriefed me for months, sometimes under hypnosis. And what I know — what they told me — it’s mostly classified.”

Elijah gave him an appraising look. “Alright.” He slipped a voice recorder from one of the inside pockets of his jacket. “Let’s start with what it’s been like since you got home.”

 

 

The hideous headline was: PRESUMED DEAD.

The article first appeared online the day after Alaric had met Elijah. Alaric could barely force himself to read it, and he couldn’t force himself to look at the accompanying photograph, the scars on his face, the cup of coffee held gently between his hands. He was asked… no, he was _ordered_ to take a few days off work, because the throng of journalists mobbing the station were already becoming a problem. Alaric wondered how long it would take for his home address to become common knowledge. Drawing Damon in was hardly going to work if he was going to have to wade through a sea of reporters to get home.

Liv showed up a little after dark looking pleased as punch. “Turn on the news. I got interviewed. My hair was _goals_.” She dropped a bag of takeout on the coffee table and dropped into place alongside Alaric, reaching for the remote. “I went to that place you like and asked for those noodles you like and because I told them your name, they’re as hot as you actually like them.” She pushed herself off the couch with more energy than Alaric had and headed to the kitchen to get cutlery, while Alaric dug through the bag.

“Thanks for this. Thanks for everything, Liv, but this is…”

He remembered, suddenly, the last remaining bug still in place in his apartment. He’d been checking daily, and they were still operating. He’d eliminated two the day before — maybe it was time to pull the plug completely. He carefully unscrewed the light fitting and lifted the tiny object out of place, brought it to the kitchen sink and dropped it down, running water after it.

Fuck it; he was too high-profile now to come after, the most-shared story on Facebook all week, and he wasn’t going to leave the house until something happened. Anything. Damon showing up, the phone miraculously ringing, maybe the captain showing up to fire him, necessitating a brief visit to the precinct to collect his favorite pen and the photo of Damon in his desk drawer.

“I never wanted any kind of publicity. I tried really hard to avoid it when I got to Honolulu, and now look at me.”

“Well, you could always go back to your original amazing plan of visiting every Italian-owned tax haven slash bar in New York, but I’m still concerned you’d go gray in the meantime, and then what would you look like? No, wait. Silver fox. You’ll grow old very gracefully.”

Alaric shoved his fork into his noodles, and didn’t bother responding to the compliment; he knew what he looked like even now. Or at least, he knew what his scars looked like, and he knew what he used to look like, and he could fill in the gaps from there. Maybe. Alaric tried not to wonder whether Damon could even find him attractive again; it hurt, and it was pointless. And it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was getting Damon safe.

“Your face is weird.”

“So’s your mom’s,” Alaric deadpanned.

“Okay, A: my mom’s dead, so fuck you, pal. B: whatever the fuck you’re worried about, you’re being in idiot. He loves you.”

Alaric grunted.

“Sometime in the next few days, he’s gonna find out you’re alive. Do you think he’s gonna look at the scars on your face and just decide he’s better off staying away?”

“Don’t, Liv. Just don’t. It’s not about scars.”

“No, it’s not, it’s about the fact that you survived at all, and when he knows that, he’s not going to care about anything else.” Liv poked at her stir-fry. She always ate the vegetables first, keeping the noodles and tofu for last, like they were dessert. “If you could have seen what it was like for him when you died… Ric, he _broke_.”

Alaric’s side itched, like he was still healing. He thought sometimes he’d never be done healing. He didn’t want to hear this, any of it. Not while he was still struggling to remember a single thing between the moment the IED detonated under his transport and waking up in Tripler. The thought that he was unconscious and shackled somewhere with some mysterious benefactor tending to his injuries while Damon was here drinking his bodyweight in whiskey and planning to throw his life away on an undercover mission that was almost certain to go horribly wrong was too fucking horrible to focus on.

“Fine, I’ll drop it. But those spiders in your brain — tell them to fuck off, because you don’t have time for a pity party. If this is going to work at all, it’s going to work soon, and since you don’t have your old phone number anymore, it’s time you started thinking about how else he might try to get in touch.”

Alaric rubbed his head, and dived back into his noodles. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I’ve gotta keep my head in the game. Has Damon ever been to your place?”

“Dropped me home a couple of times. I’d be stunned if he remembered where it was.”

“You think if Tyler or Jeremy…”

“I don’t know. But I actually think he’s more likely to show up at the precinct, if Elijah’s right and your front lawn ends up a camping site for hungry journalists. Which means it’s probably time to talk to the captain. You’ve got compelling evidence, now. And you know he’s straight as an arrow. No way is a guy who’s still fixing his own thirty-year-old car looking for a payoff.”

She had a point. “He can’t get arrested. It’s too dangerous.”

“I agree,” she said. “So. Call Captain Finch. Tomorrow, at home. In case the precinct is compromised. Sound like a plan? Oh, I almost forgot.”

She dug into her pocket and pulled out a driver’s license with Damon’s face on it, along with the improbable name of Charles Vincent, residing in Nebraska.

“Where did you get this? It looks like the real deal.”

“Elijah’s family is full of interesting criminals. The next brother down is an art forger, sitting on top of a huge pile of money in a mansion in New Orleans. Next one after that mostly forges documents.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t tell me anything else,” Alaric said.

“Their younger sister is a dancer. Completely legit. Principal for the New York Ballet.”

“That makes me feel much better,” Alaric said, with a snort, carefully slipping the ID into a hidden compartment of his wallet. And then he reached for the remote. No more news. He needed something escapist to quiet his head a little.

 

 

“I’m wondering,” Captain Finch said, when Alaric called the following day, “what would possess you to do this — bring scrutiny on _my precinct,_ probably draw a bunch of reporters onto your very nice front yard —”

“They’re not allowed to come closer than the pavement, captain,” Alaric said, chided. “And there’s not even that many.”

“Be that as it may. And now you call me when I’m on the fifteenth hole? It’s like you’re just begging me to fire you.”

“I know, Cap. And I had a good reason. It’s not one I want to discuss over the phone. Is there any chance you could meet me later today?”

“On my weekend?”

Alaric said nothing.

“You’d better have a damn good story for me. Where do you want to meet?”

“Actually… in the interests of me not getting followed anywhere, I hoped you might come here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Finch said, before he ended the call. They hadn’t picked a time. Oh, well. Not like Alaric could go anywhere anyway. He looked out the window — the reporters were chatting amongst themselves, for the most part, but Alaric did see a quick camera flash, and stepped away from the window.

At two in the afternoon, there came a knock on the door. Alaric checked the peephole, and sure enough, it was Captain Finch, looking quietly furious, albeit hopefully prepared to listen. Alaric opened the door, careful to stay out of sight, and ignoring the shouted questions.

“Not as bad as I thought it was going to be,” Finch said.

“No, me neither, although to be honest, I don’t think I’d cope that well with even just one. It’s a good thing I’ve got a medical discharge, or I might be facing a court marshal right now.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, Ric, long as I’ve known you, you’ve been a quiet sort, not interested in the spotlight.”

“Yeah —”

“Which is why I need to know _what the hell you were thinking!_ ” 

So the calm was an act. Okay.

Alaric flicked the door lock, and led Finch through to his dining room, where everything was either tacked to the wall, or laid out on the table. Finch frowned, and stepped closer, cringing when his eyes set on the photograph of Damon’s handler. He moved slowly over the display, pausing from time to time, mostly just absorbing the amount of detail there was, mildly impressed, mildly surprised.

“So you were right,” he said, about ten minutes later. “He’s been undercover. And what, he’s been burned?”

“Safest assumption,” Alaric answered. “But I have no idea where he is, and he thinks I’m dead. Considering that I’m probably the only person in the world who I know he would trust right now that makes it really hard to find him.”

“So you’re trying to bring him to you. You know the safest thing would be for him to turn himself in. We can protect him from the mob while we sort this out.”

“Yeah, that’s where it gets complicated. You want a cup of coffee?”

Alaric points to the section of the board dedicated to the FBI, or rather, those agents who have probably already benefited from the family Damon is involved with.

“Could use a beer,” Finch said, dropping into a chair and reaching for one of the documents. “But don’t tell my wife.”

 

 

—-

_Meanwhile:_

 

In a bar in Schenectady, New York, Damon picked at a burger. He really needed to eat it, but unlike Alaric, who had seemed to have a bulletproof appetite, when Damon was stressed out or miserable he couldn’t muster the motivation to stuff a handful of chips into his mouth, let alone a whole meal. 

Alaric probably wouldn’t put down his food if there was someone shooting at him. And he would be shooting back. The image made Damon smile, but not for long, because fuck Alaric, and fuck the fucking Navy. And fuck Damon’s own stupid heart, because it wasn’t supposed to hurt for this long. He was supposed to be doing better by now.

A man approached, looking exactly like he planned to sit next to Damon’s very quiet, very private spot at the bar. Damon narrowed eyes at him.

“Seat’s taken,” he said.

“There’s no one here,” said the man, looking irritated. Damon narrowed his eyes a little further, and the man paled visibly, before grumbling and heading for one of the booths in the back, where he would no doubt have a much less satisfactory view of the television screen. Damon closed his eyes for a moment and let himself imagine that Alaric was just on his way back from the bathroom, and had already thought up the next smart thing to do.

So. Dinner.

 ** _Blech_**.

Damon pushed the plate across the bar, and reached for his drink. It was probably idiotic to be drinking at all, while he was being chased by both the mob and some kind of bad action movie rogue FBI agents, but he was exhausted, and a little shaky. Also, he hadn’t figured out where he was sleeping. Maybe there was a nice alley somewhere that smelled like piss? He could only hope.

“You should at least try to eat the chips,” said the bartender, her arms crossed, looking at the plate. “Was there something wrong with it?”

“Something wrong with _me_ ,” Damon replied. “The burger was fine.”

“How would you even know?” she asked, eyeing it. All but untouched.

“Touché. Is there a cheap place to stay nearby? I don’t have a car, and I’ve got a 6.25 Greyhound to catch in the morning.” He handed over some cash.

She shrugged, as she took the money. “Plenty of people sleep in the station. It’s not allowed, technically, but I’m not sure anyone cares.”

One the one hand… it sounded very exposed.

On the other hand, Damon figured he could prop himself up with caffeine for a few hours and sleep on the bus. Getting arrested was definitely one of the top three disastrous things that could happen to him right now, and the distinctions were pretty thin, given that they were all things that would leave him dead.

At _best_.

“Actually, you know what — is the coffee here decent?”

“It’s strong,” she said. “But we’re more about the bourbon list. You want one?”

He nodded, and glanced at the clock. It was likely to be a very long night.

 

 

Staying awake for long enough to get on the bus proved more difficult than it sounded. In the corner of the station, there was a small bookshelf; take a book, leave a book, that sort of deal, and Damon was halfway through the second one when he realized it was after 6 in the morning.

He stood up, stretched outside, and waited with his ticket for the train. It was mostly empty, thank fuck. He found a three-seat section and draped himself across it.

He couldn’t sleep. Weird. He liked trains. He liked the rhythm, the sounds, the speed. But he couldn’t sleep, not then. He sat up against the window, instead, and avoided eye contact when a rotund and happy-looking man sat down and started making phone calls.

“I’m sorry,” he said, when he ended his last call. “I was at a bachelor party. I’ll be gone in a minute. You married?”

Damon glared.

“Well, whatever. Me, I want to get married. My girl, Rochelle, she’s not so sure. She’s a feminist. I mean, so am I, but she says I don’t understand my own privilege. But I’m trying, you know? I mean like I said, I love her.”

He didn’t care whether Damon was paying attention or not.

“I’m gonna pee, and maybe grab a sandwich. You want my paper?”

It was as pointless a question as any other. But Damon grunted, and pulled the newspaper into his lap.

“Safe travels,” the guy said, before he left.

Damon didn’t even hear. He was transfixed on the photograph of Alaric, on page 9, with a cup of coffee between his hands.

No. _No_.

It had to be a lie. And if it wasn’t a lie, it was a trap. Damon squinted at the scars across Alaric’s face. Probably shouldn’t admit they were hot? But, they could have been photoshopped. Who fucking knew?

He dragged his fingers over the photograph.

How the fuck was he supposed to make contact with the most watched ex-SEAL in the country? While being chased by crooked cops and the mob?

Damon pushed himself out of his seat and all the way to the bathroom on the tail end of the next train carriage, and threw up for a good few minutes, until it was all hot, yellow bile. And then he sat up against the wall.

Alaric was alive.

Damon covered his face with his hands, and rocked back on his ankles, doing his best not to imagine the worst.

Alaric was _alive_.

Either the next few days would join them again, or kill them both.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's never a good idea to forget exactly how resourceful Damon is.

“Here’s the problem,” Alaric said, pacing. “Technically, it worked. Technically, most of the country knows I’m alive, even the ones who _never knew I was dead_. The precinct and the street in front of my house are both crawling with c-string reporters, who really can’t do anything but keep people scared off — how the fuck is he supposed to even get here? Or how am I supposed to get to him, if somehow he makes contact? This is bullshit. If anything, we’ve just ended up with a spotlight on Atlanta. And the FBI probably has an even closer eye on me than those vultures do. How long until this dies down?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Liv said, dismantling her gun to clean it. It wasn’t even dirty, just a habit she had. She could strip a firearm as quickly as any SEAL, Alaric was pretty certain. He also had a theory she just liked looking dangerous.

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?”

“I mean it doesn’t matter, because the FBI is going to have an eye on you long after the reporters go. Which will be soon, don’t worry, some politician’s bound to get arrested with a roofied-up intern in the trunk of his car any day now. The point wasn’t to bring him to you.”

“Oh, you… _yourwords_ , Liv, metal detector. Bring him to me.”

“I didn’t mean it that literally. Aren’t you the one with the genius IQ? Naval intelligence? I know, I know that’s just an expression. No, I meant it figuratively. Now that he knows you’re here, he’ll find a way to make contact. I guarantee it.”

Alaric swore under his breath, repeatedly.

“He’s smart. You keep forgetting that.”

“Sure, he’s smart. But he’s also scared for his life and keeping a low profile.”

“Well, that just means he’s started valuing his own life again. Call it a win.”

Alaric leaned heavily against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms. Over the last couple of days he was certain he’d replayed every conversation he’d ever had with Damon that might give him another option to try, and so far, he had nothing. Boston. He had Boston. And parents who had long passed, and a house that had been sold twice since they’d died, and no one who knew Alaric still living there. At least, no one who knew him well enough to pass on a message, no one Alaric had ever mentioned.

“Where do you think he is?”

Liv shrugged. “Somewhere, hunkering down, staying safe, and figuring out a plan.”

“I think you give him too much credit for being careful,” Alaric disagreed, and set about making another pot of coffee.

 

 

Damon sat in a truck stop diner for a good three hours, watching trucks coming and going, choosing his mark carefully. His posture shifted when a truck pulled up, with ‘IANELLI’S FRUITS BOSTON’ painted down the side, along with a childish depiction of a dancing peach and some concerned-looking grapes. Tacky.

The truck had been coming from the right direction, so that was a start. And the man was old, looked tired, probably long past the age where he should have retired, but he couldn’t afford to. He rubbed his eyes as he entered the diner, and bought up a handful of energy drinks before he picked out a sandwich and shambled toward the counter to order coffee.

Damon was waiting for him by the truck when he got out.

“I’m sorry, son. I don’t take hitchhikers,” he said, not unkindly, as he unlocked the cab. “Nothing personal. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that even the gentlest looking dog bites sometimes. And you don’t look like an especially gentle dog.”

Damon nodded. “Yeah,” he said. He took off his sunglasses, and let himself feel just an invisible touch smug when the old guy looked a little anguished at the sight of his face. “I can pay you. Not much, but. I can.” Money was a dire problem at this point, but next stop Boston and Damon didn’t think his cash reserves would go all that much further on coaches and trains.

“Guess you’ve got a story to go with that shiner.”

“It’s a long story, if you really want to hear it. Involves the mob, and crooked FBI agents — what do you think?”

The old man chuckled to himself.

“Fine. I got rolled for a gambling debt. My wallet was stolen, my car was stolen and has since been torched — I need to get to Boston to see my sister. She says my brother in law could get me some construction work.”

The man hesitated. “I travel with a loaded pistol. Any funny business and I’ll use it. Believe me, after almost fifty years driving big rigs I know how to get bloodstains out of upholstery.”

Damon snickered. “Yeah? You’ll have to give me some pointers,” he said, jogging around to the other side of the cab, and climbing in.

“Jed,” said the old guy.

“What a coincidence!”

“Your name’s Jed too?”

“No,” Damon said, fastening his seatbelt. “But it’s not yours either, so let’s just pretend.”

 

 

By the time Damon had been dropped off at his fictional sister’s house, close to Cambridge, he was met with another problem; he needed somewhere to stay, and he doubted there were a whole lot of no-tell motels running sixty-five bucks a night in the area. It seemed kind of tacky to sleep in a church, but since the place was open, and relatively warm, he bundled up in a pew and hunkered down for the night.

He was woken in the morning by a polite cough.

“Oh. Hello. Father. Or… Reverend. I’m sorry, I really wasn’t paying attention to the denomination,” he said, sheepishly, bones creaking from having slept so uncomfortably.

“It’s fine,” said the… whatever. He passed over a slip of paper. “There’s a shelter not far from here. And if you hurry, they do breakfast until eight. They can help you with some clothes, if you need, a haircut voucher so you can look for a job. Though perhaps what you need is medical attention.”

No, he was days past that.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, as he hooked the duffel over his arm and excused himself, paper clutched in his fist and burning with embarrassment. It was getting very difficult to maintain his cynicism when people kept being so nice.

An hour on the computer in the public library and Damon had the name of Alaric’s school; technically public, but the sort of public school you get in a rich area with a buttload of rich smart people working at Harvard who want their kids to have a public education that looks and smells like a private one. If Damon hadn’t been able to find an old basketball team photograph with Alaric’s shy, smiling face in the back row, he would have guessed just by the fact the school actually taught Latin.

_Latin._

Probably came in handy if you ran a side business in exorcism, but otherwise, what the actual fuck. He cleaned up in the library bathroom and changed his clothes — Damon was nothing if not resourceful — and walked the three miles to the high school, grateful that it was at least a weekday.

It was almost half past nine when Alaric entered the school. The temptation was to sneak through until he found the library, and raid the old yearbooks; but he figured getting caught sneaking into a high school was likely to land him in jail in about fifteen minutes, dead in a couple of hours (Boston being barely over 200 miles from New York) and if not dead then certainly on a watch list somewhere. Instead, he sauntered over to the front office and rang the little bell.

Ding!

He could have wept, sung, danced through the corridors when the woman who approached him looked to be nearing a hundred years old. With any luck, she’d been working here for at least twenty-five of those.

“You’ll need to sign in,” she said, efficiently. “Who are you here to see?”

“You,” Damon said, batting his eyelashes.

“And you are?”

“I’m in the last year of my teaching degree at UMass,” he said, taking off his sunglasses.

“You should know that jobs here are in very high demand.”

“I know,” Damon said smoothly. “That’s why I’m here. I have an assignment to write about exceptional schools. I know this is the best public school in Boston…”

“Best school, period,” she said, pushing her glasses down her nose.

“Well, so they say. I just want to know a bit about it. What makes it great. Notable alumni. That sort of thing. I think it’s so great that you teach Latin here. Classics are _so_ underrated.”

The old lady smiled primly, though she had a look on her face which suggested that while she was charmed, Damon had better be careful not to push it too far. Somehow she’d managed not to pay attention to the patently fake name he had written in the guest book, and though she took a moment to consider, moments later she told a colleague, a man bearing more than a passing resemblance to a praying mantis, that she’d be back shortly, and was giving a short tour. On her return, she shook Damon’s hand warmly and introduced herself as Mrs. Mortimer. She even offered to let Damon call her Emily, which he suspected meant he’d made some kind of major score.

“Thanks for this,” Damon drawled. “Have you worked here a long time?”

“Almost forty years,” she said. “Since my youngest left for college. Now, my grandchildren are all in college. Time flies. I can’t show you too much, there’s really not time, though I can give you some numbers to call, teachers who would be suitable to interview. I wanted to show you our alumni hall, though.”

She pushed open a pair of fire doors. This was the first section of corridors that didn’t have rows upon rows of brightly-colored lockers (notably lacking graffiti, which suggested the kids here had all been reprogrammed somehow). Instead, the walls were covered in large frames full of photographs, news articles, short explanations of the crowning achievements oftheir brightest stars.

“This is very impressive,” Damon said.

“This isn’t even all of it. We have limited space, so each year, a new frame goes up, and the oldest one on the walls is added to the library in the alumni hall. We have an active alumni, of course, they all want to come back to mingle, network, volunteer for this and that.”

Damon pretended to peruse the frames, but in truth he was madly doing calculations in his head. Pretty sure Alaric would have been the class of ’96. When Damon got to the frame, his heart fumbled a beat.

Nope. He was hallucinating. Alaric was not a best-selling author. That wasn’t his photo.

“You know his work?”

“I think I must do. I thought I recognized his face. Ben Alder? What does he write?”

“Fiction. He’s gay — his books are all beautifully angsty love stories, mostly coming of age, coming out, falling for the wrong man, that sort of thing. He’s very good, but I wish he’d cheer up a bit. It’s not romance, it’s truly literature, but… probably a lot of it is autobiographical. It was hard to be out, back then. He’s a professor of literature at Duke, as well.”

He did look like Alaric. It was strange. Almost uncanny. Not in the book flap photograph, but the younger, school photo. Alaric’s haircut. Same coloring.

“Ben Alder. _Most likely to write a bestseller_ ,” he read from the yearbook cutout, drily. “Predictable people are the worst.”

“He edited the lit mag in junior and senior year. He really does write beautifully.”

“And his nickname was Shadow?”

“He looked just like his best friend, Alaric,” Emily said, and Damon’s blood froze. “Always trailing behind him, until he found his feet. Poor man was killed in Afghanistan a few years ago.” She pointed to Alaric’s obituary, pinned in the corner of the frame, and Damon wanted to throw up.

Forcing himself to move to the next frame was almost impossible. “And a principal dancer in the New York Ballet,” he said, caring exactly zero percent.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to show you throw the rest. But make an appointment, and come back, and you can take your time,” she said, sterling him back the way they’d come. “I’ll take your number, shall I? I’ll find someone to call you.”

Damon barely registered the number he jotted down on a scrap of paper, back at the front office. He was fairly certain there were enough digits in it, but if the number belongs to an Adam Smith at the University of Massachusetts, it would be nothing more than a hilarious coincidence.

He signed out at 9.55, and headed back towards the library to figure out how to get in touch with Ben Alder.

 

 

Turned out that trying to get in touch with a bestselling author who was also a professor of literature at Duke was a little bit like trying to get in touch with a rock star. People were happy to take his name and number and call him back, though. Damon swore more than once, and then hit Ben’s website to see if there were any clues that might make him easier to track down.

If only he still had access to police databases. He was beginning to despair. Although, Ben’s new book sounded like a page turner. If Damon survived the next week or two he thought he might buy a copy. Or, the way his money was dwindling, shoplift a copy.

He clicked on a link to public engagements, and almost cried laughing.

Ben was reading an excerpt of his new book, followed by a signing, at a bookstore in Brooklyn in about eight hours.

“Back into the belly of the fucking beast,” he muttered. If Ben wasn’t in contact with Alaric anymore, Damon was just going to hitchhike to Florida and offer himself up to the alligators.

 

 

If only he was a proper detective or something, Damon might have known something about disguises. But no. His one and only undercover gig had meant going by his own name, and looking exactly like he did. So his brilliant disguise was… wait for it………

 _A plaid flannel shirt and sunglasses!_ And a pair off off-brand loafers from a big box store!

Yep, he was probably fucked. At least when his corpse was found in a bathroom in Central Station, the magnificent leather jacket he was slowly committing the rest of his life to would make him look like less of a loser.

The other half of his disguise was a pair of earbuds which disappeared into his shirt but were not actually plugged into anything, so he could listen while looking completely absorbed, and a copy of Ben’s book (fine, yes, he’d stolen it, figured Ben might cut him some slack seeing as how the Amtrak ticket cost him eighty bucks and he was probably going to die in a few hours). He was reading, technically, although sheer gut-turning panic was keeping him from taking anything in. It was also keeping him from losing track of his surroundings, though, so he’d take the win. He promised the poor book a proper read when his life was in at least 40% less danger, if that ever happened.

The weird thing about being back in New York was that all of the places he knew were definitely dangerous, and all of the places he didn’t know were _potentially_ dangerous. He was still confident that the deeply corrupt FBI dudes who were definitely going to eventually rot in hell were a small number indeed, but that didn’t mean that his photograph wasn’t being spread around between the good guys, as well. Plus — bonus! — he didn’t know all of the bad guys.

He longed for his apartment. Only a twenty minute walk, but he couldn’t go there. If nothing else, that was a place that would be watched.

He found a corner booth in a painfully hip café and returned to his book, trying to formulate a next-level plan. And trying to think about all the ways it would go terribly wrong if for some reason the FBI was watching Ben the way they were undoubtedly watching Alaric.

Fuck

_Alaric._

He fucking missed him.

It was a weird thing to think about, but Damon hadn’t spent an awful lot of time feeling safe, in his life. His father had been a nightmare, his mother dead when he was only 17. He had no illusions about why he’d signed up for the police academy; quite aside from the desperate need to distance himself from Giuseppe’s so-called business, the need to get himself armed, and keep himself armed, and learn to beat the shit out of any person of any size had all been contributing factors.

He glanced across the road. People were beginning to amass on the pavement outside the bookstore. Mostly guys, mostly guys who looked like they had plans to try to get Ben out of his pants. Well, who could really blame them? Damon shoved his book into his duffel and walked around the block before joining the throng.

The reading wasn’t bad. Ben had a theatricality to him which made Damon wonder how he’d ever ended up Alaric’s shadow, when Alaric only let himself shine when he was, say, beating the shit out of a bad guy, driving like he was immortal or running drills. Ask him what he wanted for dinner and he hunched like he had forgotten he had shoulders.

Damon joined the line for Ben to sign his book. The sick feeling of exposure really never left, but there was a part of him that was trying to insist that not one single person he’d ever met via _La Familia_ would ever show up at a book signing by an out gay writer.

Also, by the way, never spill; if Damon didn’t know Alaric was alive, he would have crawled into the guy’s lap, asked if he could call him Ric and ridden him like a carousel.

Pretending he wasn’t afraid he’d never see the photo again, he tucked the single, tiny frame, no more than an inch wide and maybe one and a half inches tall, into the book. Stupid photo booth. Alaric was such a stupid sap. And Damon missed him, _missed him_ , loved him so fucking much, and all of this was dumb as shit, and if not for the stupid article saying stupid Alaric was stupid alive he might well have just let himself be found.

Front of the line.

Damon passed his book across the desk, and Ben gave him a very Alaric-y grin, before opening the cover.

“I love the book. I’ve read the first five pages at least forty times,” Damon said, and if it was an exaggeration, it wasn’t much of one.

Ben grinned. “The rest isn’t bad either,” he said, leaning in with his pen.

And then he saw the photo.

Fortunately, he wasn’t a complete idiot. He stared at it for a moment, and then looked up with a question on his lips and decided against asking it. He looked slightly ashen, when he wrote a couple of lines in the front page and passed the book back into Damon’s waiting hand.

“Enjoy the rest,” he said, though his voice was suddenly rough.

 

 

Two and a half hours later, getting to the point where he was so cold that Damon’s balls had shrunk to the size of cherries and crawled up into his body cavity, Ben stood in front of him, and nodded.

“Damon,” he said.

“That would be me. Please tell me you didn’t call the police.”

“I didn’t call the police. I tried to call Ric, but apparently he changed phones. Come on. You need somewhere warm to sleep. Also, you need to explain what the actual fuck is going on, because I know Ric rose from the dead, but I think you’re still wanted for… fuck. Everything?”

Damon’s mouth curled into a snarl.

“Oh, give it a break. Saltzman wouldn’t fall for a villain.”

Damon was mollified, for now.

“Come on. I’ve got a hotel room down the street. The couch is comfortable enough to sleep on and you look like you haven’t eaten a proper meal in a while. And if you think you’re getting away with not telling me this story, you’re wrong.”

Ben had Damon’s hand in his own, and his thumb shifting the sleeve of his shirt just enough to show the still-raw wrist. Damon jerked away, embarrassed.

“Forgot my safe word,” he said, but there wasn’t a whole lot of bravado in it.

“And we need to figure out how to get in touch with Ric.”

Damon nodded, jaw set in a hard line, but nodded gratefully.

As it turned out, it was a very nice hotel room.

“My first book tour, I had to basically pay for myself,” Ben said, hanging his coat in the closet. “But since I’m a sure thing, now, they do right by me. Are you hungry?”

Damon gritted his teeth. “Starving,” he said, grabbing up the room service menu and looking for the largest thing they had on it, excepting only the one-pound steak that would probably take an hour to cook. “I’ll get the Big Burger,” he said, dropping onto the couch. “It looks like it’s about the size of my head. You’re right about the food thing. Money’s beyond tight. I had to buy my clothes in a Goodwill shop. The only consolation is knowing my father probably wakes up in a cold sweat every time I put on a second-had shirt. The snob.”

“Well, it’s a great disguise for Brooklyn,” Ben replied, snatching up the menu had heading for the phone. “Though you need a proper beard to pull off the hipster lumberjack look properly. Yeah, room 1705. Can we get a big burger, chicken salad, lamb shanks, garlic bread, couple of beers… yeah, Sam Adams is good. Make it four. Hey, Damon, you got a sweet tooth? Apple pie?”

Damon didn’t even open his eyes. “Everyone likes apple pie.”

Ben finished the order, and ended the call. He sat in an overstuffed armchair. “So, are you gonna spill it?” he said. “You know who I am. I know who you are. And it might sweeten the pot to know that if I turned you in, Saltzman would never speak to me again and my life would be drained of all joy.”

“Long time to carry a torch.”

Ben shook his head. “I never said I was carrying a torch. But he is my best friend, even if we don’t talk as much as I’d like, or as much as we used to. I spoke to him a few times when he got back from the dead. The change of phone number has to be recent. He hasn’t had a landline for years, and I don’t know who to trust at his precinct.”

Damon said nothing.

“You should probably be dressing your wrists properly.”

“Well, that makes me look like I’ve escape from a 72-hour hold in a locked ward.”

“Well, not doing it makes you look like you escaped from a sex-trafficking ring. Which, by the way. Did you?”

“Not quite, but they’re planning to branch out, so I guess I escaped the mob task force on how to buy and sell humans. So yay me. I still had a lot of work to do, but… my handler disappeared, and I’m not dumb enough to think there’s any chance at all that he might be alive. Next thing I know I’ve been abducted by a couple of guys who are each the size of a truck and considerably less pretty, tied up in the wine cellar of the boss’s house, being beaten for information I kept trying to tell them I didn’t have. Specific enough for you?”

“It’s a start,” Ben said, and he settled in comfortably.

 

 

Damon told his tale over the enormous pile of food, and two beers that ended up four each. He’d been a lot more specific than he’d intended, but reasoned part of the way through that if he ended up dead in the next couple of days, it would be good to know that there was someone else out here who knew the details. At least for now he felt relatively safe and comfortable, full of food, and with his eyes getting heavy.

Damon crossed his arms over his stomach, and spent a long time staring at the muted television. Some action movie Ric had made him watch once. He couldn’t remember the name, but it didn’t suck.

“I think I should drive you to Atlanta,” Ben said, at last. He started collecting empty plates onto the tray, and clearing away empty bottles. Amusingly he also wiped down the coffee table they’d been using, so apparently he was a lot neater than Alaric.

“You can’t drive me to Atlanta. I’ll get arrested, and they’ll either find I killed myself in my cell overnight or I’ll get shivved as soon as I’m transferred to prison. And I’ll get you arrested as well, which won’t go down well with Ric, and if they get the slightest hint that you know everything I just told you, you’ll probably have a terrible traffic accident within a day or two. So. No. We are not driving me to Atlanta.”

“Alright, what’s your counter?”

“I need somewhere safe to lay low until my name gets cleared. But honestly, the whole of the east coast feels like a viper pit right now. He needs to meet me somewhere. I just hope he knows somewhere to meet me, because I’m tapped out.”

They were silent for a long moment.

“Are you sure he’s going to believe you’re innocent?” Ben asked.

Damon leveled him with a cold gaze. “What do you think?”

“Good enough,” Ben said. “Alright. Hey, who’s the girl with the blonde hair? Curly? Cute, sort of lethal-looking?”

Damon’s eyes snapped open. “Liv. Olivia Parker. How do you know her?”

“I don’t, but there’s a great YouTube clip of her hurling abuse at a reporter who asked to see Saltzman’s scars . Outside his house.”

Damon ran his hand through his hair. “So he trusts her.”

“You got her number?”

“No, but it’ll be easier to get than Alaric’s will.” Damon checked the time, flashing gently at the corner of the TV screen. “I’d say it was too late to call, but… have you met anyone else from the SWAT Team?”

“No. Well, Jeremy, but only for a minute or two. He came by the house. Do you trust the captain at APD?”

“I trust him,” Damon said. “He doesn’t trust me. The evidence locker theft was basically designed for him to fall for, more than anyone else, and believe me when I say it worked. Jeremy has a sister. She’s a doctor at Atlanta Memorial.”

Ben took a long breath, and pulled his phone from his pocket. “Let’s hope she’s on a late shift,” he said, with a resigned look that reminded Damon of Alaric again.

It ached.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are finally starting to come together.

Alaric had barely lifted his phone when he realized Liv was already talking. “Slow down,” he said. “Please, slow down. I succumbed to despair last night and my head hurts.”

“You lush. Remember the thing in elementary and middle school where you pass on a message and you say ‘Anne told Dick to tell Jane to tell Dakota that blah blah blah’?”

“Fuck,” Alaric said. “No, I don’t think I ever did that. Oh, I might have got a message that way, once or twice, but I always found if you wanted someone to sit with you at recess, it was better just to front up and ask them to sit with you. Your point being?”

“Elena Gilbert just called me.”

“Jeremy’s sister? The doctor?”

“The one and only,” Liv answered. “And guess who’s chilling with your high school bestie.”

Alaric leapt out of bed so quickly that he got himself tangled in his sheets and landed on the ground in an uncharacteristically inelegant sprawl. “He’s where?”

“Light on the details, Ric,” Liv warned, and Alaric remembered that he still didn’t know whether or not his new phone was being tapped.

“Yeah,” Alaric said. “Liv… I gotta…”

“I know,” she answered, and he ended the call.

It took him ten minutes to find an address book with Ben’s phone number written in the inside cover. No, he never backed up his phone to the cloud, no, he’d never gotten around to putting all of this sort of thing into a computer where it would be safe. So, here he was, pawing through drawers, trying to find the tiny red book he’d been carrying around since he was a teenager.

Leaving his mobile where it was, he snuck out the back of his house, jumped over the fence and started walking, trying to remember the last time he’d noticed a working public phone.

 

 

“Ben?” he said, as the call connected. “Is it true?”

“It’s true. Not to be a dick but is this a secure line?”

Alaric scrubbed a hand over his face. “As secure as I can manage. Public phone.”

“You found a public phone? That _works_?”

“Not the time, Ben.”

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too,” Ben said. “There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”

Alaric’s stomach clenched as he waited. So close, but they were still hundreds of miles apart, and with a sea of dangers between them.

“If you ever die on me again, I’m gonna _kill_ you,” came a remarkably polite and appreciative-sounding purr.

“Oh, god. Damon. It’s so good to hear your voice.” Alaric felt dizzy. He wasn’t going to trust this until he had Damon in his arms, but this was a good start. “Are you alright?”

“A little beat up. Not dead. Not arrested. It’s a good start. I miss you,” he said, and the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I miss you, too. Fuck, Damon, I can’t believe…”

Any of it, really, but he couldn’t find the words.

“Me too,” Damon said, quietly. “How much do you know?”

“Most of it, I think. Enzo came to see me. I have files. Put some of it together myself, while I was…”

While he was in Hawaii. Among friends, cops he could actually trust. The spark of an idea began to unfold.

“Ric?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just trying to think, when mostly I’m so relieved I’m talking to you that the rest of my brain has completely shut down.” He rubbed his forehead, and leaned against the plastic guard over the phone, willing his heart to slow down and refusing to wonder about the millions of bacteria swarming over the plastic.

“Not to be melodramatic, but I’m in real trouble here. Hiding out in New York feels a little bit like hiding in a swarm of bees. But I don’t think I can get to you. Any ideas?”

“A few,” Alaric said. “Listen, I’m gonna find myself another burner phone, and I’ll call you back with the number. I think I’ll send someone to you. Might be the safest option.”

“Alright.” Damon covered the phone — barely — and in his most saccharine-sweet voice, spoke to Ben. “Could you, perchance, fuck off for a minute? I need a minute to be a sap.”

Alaric didn’t hear what Ben grumbled, but he smiled, and let his eyes fall closed for another moment.

There was something desperate in Damon’s tone. Overall, he seemed to be holding it together remarkably well, but he sounded tired, scared, and… yes, desperate, under all his usual bravado.

“Tell me you’re still mine,” he said. “I’m barely holding it together and I can do it, if I know you’re waiting at the finish line.”

Alaric took a deep breath. Felt like he needed a dozen disclaimers, here; Damon didn’t know how messed up he was, that he was still waking up in a cold sweat, fighting off his sheets, grasping at half a memory of the time he’d lost. That he was scarred, and couldn’t find his whole face in a mirror, that he didn’t have the stamina Damon remembered, or quite the strength. That he limped when the weather was cold. But in that moment, he realized it just didn’t fucking matter, any of it.

“I’m still yours, Damon. Always will be. And we’re in this together. I’ll get your name cleared. I’ll get you safe. You’re gonna be okay. I love you. Don’t forget it.”

Damon was silent for a long moment, and Alaric wished he was there, holding him, foreheads touching, sharing breath.

“Yeah, yeah,” Damon said at last, with smug satisfaction in his tone. “Stop being gross. Ben’s got another night in New York, but I’m gonna have to make other arrangements tomorrow. I’m very low on cash.”

“Ben will lend you some. Just tell him I’ll cover it. And sit tight. I’ll let you know when I’ve got a plan. In the meantime, I need you to make a video statement, okay? Every single thing you can remember. Any detail might matter. And any documentation you have — copy it, and keep the originals on you, okay? I’ve got work to do here, but I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

Damon was silent for a long time, and Alaric just wanted to reach out, take his hand, touch his face, kiss him. All he could do was listen to him breathe.

“Soon,” he said again.

“Okay,” Damon said. And then he was silent, for a moment. So silent that Alaric was sure he’d taken a breath with the intention of saying something, and then changed his mind. And then he stumbled, and spoke. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Alaric breathed back. “Sit tight. I promise, this will be over soon. Make the tapes, and stay safe.”

“Ric?”

“Yeah.”

“You know they won’t actually be tapes, right?”

“Here we go.”

“I mean… I know you have that VCR in the closet…”

“I’m hanging up on you.”

“You made me a mix CD, Ric. I don’t know what decade you’re in, I just —”

Alaric slammed the receiver down, and laughed. Apparently, nothing had changed. That was something of a relief.

 

 

“If I was a suspicious sort of person,” Alaric said, “I’d think you’d had this made in advance.”

It wasn’t just a fake ID — it was a flawless, authentic driver’s license. With Damon’s face on it, and the _so-fake-it-has-to-be-real_ name James Taylor. It was even scratched just enough to look like it had been kicking around in a wallet for a year or so. “Should I ask?”

“Probably not,” Liv replied. “I like being owed favors. I say this to point out that I can get people to do things for me, and also as a subtle allusion to the fact that _you_ now owe me. And will owe me forever.”

“Noted,” Alaric said, tucking the license into the window pocket of an old, worn leather wallet he’d found in a box in the top of his closet. In his actual bedroom. So many months since he’d even ventured inside, but now he was actually starting to believe he might see Damon again, some day soon, he’d been able to find the energy to open the door, even vacuum. Put fresh sheets on the bed. Not that he thought he’d be able to bring Damon back here anytime soon. Still, it had felt like an expression of optimism. It had made him feel better.

Anything that felt like progress was to be celebrated. And they were being inconspicuous in a local bar, rather than sitting anywhere they might be observed. Liv’s beer was almost finished already, while Alaric’s had barely been touched.

“So that will get him on a plane. But what will get him safely to an airport? These guys are FBI. All they have to do is put his name in a terrorist watch list and face recognition will do the rest for them. They’d arrest him at the airport and then a day or so later someone would find him hanged in his cell. This just seems so risky.”

“He’s a smart guy. He knows how to avoid cameras without looking suspicious. We could get him out of New York and find a regional airport — I don’t know where, Ric, don’t look at me like I’m supposed to have all the answers. That, or hope that fact that La Guardia is so busy works like camouflage. Come on. Now is not the time to flake out on me. I’ve invested too much into this. I need to see the happy ending.”

Happy ending. Ha.

Alaric nodded. “Yeah, alright. Okay. You know what, fuck it. We’ll get him onto a flight from La Guardia.”

“To?”

Alaric rubbed his eyes. “I’ve given it a lot of thought. We need to know he’ll land somewhere he’s safe, or he is a dead man. We both know he is.” Alaric’s phone chirped. It was a message. “Connor. He just passed state lines. He says he’ll call later .”

“Ric, focus. Where are you sending Damon on this magical flight?”

“Honolulu.”

“Honolulu.”

“Yes. I told you about my old SEAL buddy. He runs a task force on Oahu. As soon as Damon has these recordings uploaded somewhere secure, I’m gonna add the scans of all the documents and send the lot to Steve. By the time Damon lands — well, you can guess the rest. It’s an eleven hour flight, and it won’t be the FBI who meet him when he lands. It’ll be Five-0.”

“Trying to picture GQ on the beach.” Liv shrugged. “Wait, no. I think I have it — he’s on the beach, mostly naked…”

“Stop picturing it. Right now.”

“Alright. Let’s do it. Get me some cash and I’ll buy the ticket from a travel agent. Okay?”

Alaric nodded, and examined the driver’s license for any sign that it might not pass muster, and then he handed the wallet to Liv. “I’d better go. Make sure Luke gets to the courier before it closes, and I’ll go get you that cash. You ever notice how in the movies, things always seem to go so incredibly wrong at the very last second?”

“This is not a movie, idiot,” Liv said. “All the bad shit has already happened. It’s just time for the happy ever after, now. Ugh, I could puke. You’re making me nauseous.”

“Such a cynic.” But he realized his mistake a moment later, when Liv’s eyes suddenly shimmered in misery. “Shit. Are you okay?”

She looked like she might bite his thumb off. Or at the very least, deny that there was anything wrong; a few weeks ago, she would have.

“I doubt I’ll ever be lucky enough to find something like what you two have. Even with everything that’s happened and everything you’re going through now.” She swallowed hard as Alaric stood up, concerned. Her nose and her cheekbones had pinked up just slightly, belying her haughty expression.

“Liv?”

“No, I don’t need you to answer that. There is no answer.”

She pulled her jacket over her shoulders and Alaric followed her out of the bar.

“I do get it,” she said, on the sidewalk outside. “I’m abrasive. I repel people. And I think I even do it on purpose, so it’s not like I can blame anyone else for the fact that I’m alone. It just… I don’t know. It hurts sometimes. Don’t tell anyone I said that or I’ll shoot you.”

Alaric stared at the ground for a moment, and then slung an arm around Liv’s neck and shoulders. He knew she’d hate it. He also knew she needed it. He kissed the top of her head.

“I promise you that Damon is every bit as abrasive as you are, and I love him to death.”

Liv laughed, and then pulled away, wiping her nose, rolling her eyes, the regular Liv again. Tough façade, soft heart.

“Yeah, yeah. Come by with the cash later. I’ll let you know what day the wallet will get there.” She drew herself up to full height, and turned to leave. A couple of steps and she stopped, and turned back, looking concerned. “Wait. Ric.”

“Yeah?”

“I thought you said Connor thought he was being followed.”

Alaric nodded. “Yeah. He is.”

Liv frowned. “Never mind. Whatever. I’ll see you later.”

 

 

One by one, the pieces began to fall into place. Three days. There were three days of this nightmare left, and it would all be over. Alaric barely slept. He resisted the urge to pack a suitcase. He went back to work, since the interest in him had died down somewhat, and he needed to be busy — there was always paperwork to do, after all. And he watched the clock, and he tried to avoid throwing up out of terror for Damon’s life, and he tried to remember what it was like to be the focus of Damon’s intense gaze, that gorgeous neediness. He resisted the temptation to rehearse some speech about how he know he looked different and would understand if Damon didn’t find him attractive anymore. He spoke to Connor every few hours; he was taking his time on the drive, after all, no point in getting there much before the wallet did. He’d been stopping at the occasional tourist attraction, sending Alaric selfies. Amazingly his expression never really varied from his ‘I am too old for this bullshit’ look.

Selfies. It made Alaric smile.

He ticked things off in his head one at a time, wore himself out at the gym, and counted minutes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so AWOL and I am sorry. But I have a few chapters ready to go, and as I revise, I'll post -- thank you for your patience!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has a part to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters move between POVs a bit -- hope it doesn't cause anyone problems, but I really wanted to get more of a sense of different people's roles and perspectives! Next couple of chapters in a few hours.

**Three days out**

 

Damon woke on the couch in a cold sweat, struggling to breathe. He envied people who couldn’t remember their dreams. Or, rather, couldn’t remember their nightmares. Damon enjoyed remembering the good ones since they often involved Alaric’s furry chest and strong arms.

His nightmares, though. From the time he was a kid he would have liked those to fuck right off. They’d evolved over time, of course. It had taken years to escape the specter of Giuseppe Salvatore and his belt, his fists, memorably from time to time his boots. Years after Damon had left home, he still had those dreams. It took Giuseppe going to prison to exorcise those demons. And then a few years of blissful slumber until he started dreaming of Alaric’s broken, lifeless body.

And now he wakes with the certainty that he’s going to die himself, and though that wouldn’t be so bad in itself (honestly… there had been a couple of times he had hoped someone might just shoot him and have it over with, though he’d never thought he might take the reins himself), it would mean that after all this time he wouldn’t even get to see Alaric.

He was working to get his breathing under control and his heart rate down when he heard Ben moving around in the bedroom. He bounced across the room to the kitchenette to chug some water. As much of it as he could. With his back to the room so Ben wouldn’t see his face drained of color. The last thing he needed was to look weak.

Ben had to be standing in the doorway for a few seconds thinking. Well, no problem, because Damon was getting ready to turn around and yell at him. He didn’t need people thinking things about him, or looking at him, or thinking they understood anything. And since he was about to be abandoned in an otherwise empty hotel room for the next few days (where he would probably be found shot execution-style in the back of the head, through a feather pillow and with a silencer like a warning to the rest of the mob and the Bureau and God and whoever else was paying attention).

Damon clenched his teeth and got ready for his tirade. Wasn’t 100% sure about the content yet but it was going to be a doozy.

“Listen you know what? I think I’m gonna stay. All I’ve got is a couple of meetings I can reschedule, next few days.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Damon felt a burning in his throat.

“Not being an idiot. I’m being a selfish prick. Come on. How many opportunities in life do you think a writer gets to be embroiled in this kind of intrigue? Also, I have a couple of other things I should do while I’m in town, save me the hassle of another trip in a couple of weeks.”

When Damon turned, he saw the suitcase behind Ben’s knees. He wanted to say _no, go, just get out._ Wanted to remind Ben that these guys were dangerous. But he couldn’t. He’d been alone for too long. The thought of sitting here with no one else around for a couple more days, it was too much.

“Fine, stay, it’s your dime,” he said, with a shrug, but he doubted he was hiding the relief on his face very well. “You can listen to me do the last couple of recordings if you want fodder for some noir crap. Man can’t survive of queer literary fiction alone, can he?”

“You say that like I can’t spin queer literary noir. Have some faith.”

Damon snorted. “It’s your career, _Shadow_. I need some breakfast. Coffee. And does this place have a gym?”

 

 

Later that evening, after dragging himself home from the precinct (grateful beyond the telling of it that he didn’t have any reporters left on his lawn) Alaric accessed the FTP site Ben had set up for Damon, and he downloaded the video files. There were five of them, ranging from about forty minutes to two hours. Damon was specific, clear, and provided the sort of detail which meant that everything he said could be corroborated. He had a lightning sharp mind. Nothing ever really got past him. It was impressive, even for a cop.

Alaric uploaded the files to two other locations as well as his own cloud drive. All the documents, all the videos. He also copied it all onto a USB drive for Captain Finch. He made careful arrangements to ensure he wouldn’t actually find the drive until Damon was in Honolulu, safe. And then he used a secure email account to send the links to Five-0. Steve would know who it was from. He deleted the email account immediately afterward.

He spoke briefly to Ben, who told him that he’d decided to stay on in New York for a couple of days, having found something to entertain himself with. Alaric sincerely hoped that Damon wasn’t in the process of being turned into a fictional character. Or at least that Ben had the sense to change enough details so he wouldn’t be sued for… fuck, Alaric didn’t even know what it would be. Defamation? Was it defamation if it was true?

Though for all he knew Ben was just trying in his very not-smooth not-secret-agent way to say that Damon wasn’t leaving the hotel until he was ready to go to the airport.

Around half past ten, Alaric’s phone rang.

“Connor,” he said, as he picked up the phone, rubbing his eyes. “How’s the drive, man?”

“It’s good. Taking it easy, you know how it is. Just ate a damn fine bowl of curry and I’m watching a documentary about the Federal Reserve.”

Alaric frowned. That seemed like a weird code. Nothing they’d ever discussed before.

“Stop thinking so hard. I am literally watching a documentary about the Federal Reserve, nitwit. About how they destroy all the old notes and shit.”

Alaric snickered. “Right. How’s your company?”

“Still there. Very professional. I ain’t too worried.”

“Alright. Check in tomorrow, let me know where you are. G’night.”

“G’night,” Connor replied, and Alaric ended the call. Forty seconds. Fine. He tossed the phone aside. He brushed his teeth.

He tried, and failed, to find his entire face in the mirror, and hoped that Damon would be able to see him, that the fog over his face was only in his own mind. That Damon wouldn’t have second thoughts. That they were still going to have a chance, despite all of this crap.

And then he dragged himself to bed, to sleep uneasily.

 

 

 

**Two days out**

 

“Well, here’s the thing,” Alaric said to the man sitting across the table from him. Markos Chanaparhord. Big guy, prison smart, mean as a cut snake. “You lack credibility on account of how you’ve served two adult terms for aggravated burglary and assault, which makes this your third strike, which, I don’t know —”

He turned to the junior detective sitting beside him. Temporarily assigned to him because of Connor’s ‘vacation’ and because she had been one of the first on the scene when the armored car had been robbed in broad daylight, one guard beaten almost to death and the other pronounced DOA at Chastain. She was young. Smart. Ambitious. Damn good at her job. And earlier in the day they’d learned they had the Gilberts in common. Alaric liked her but he was, amazingly enough, missing Connor.

“I feel like that’s a really good motive to try to convince the cops you’ve been set up. What do you think, Detective Bennett?”

Bonnie shrugged. “Third-time loser with a pretty girlfriend waiting at home? Yeah, I’d say he’s got a good reason to lie. Notice how he’s not very good at it, though?”

“You noticed that too, huh?”

“And yet,” she said, standing up, crossing her arms, making a face like she was concentrating deeply. “I do actually believe him. Or at least, I believe he thinks he’s telling the truth.”

“Oh, yeah?” Alaric said, feigning boredom. He sipped his coffee.

“Well, how would you feel? You get out of jail, work for three months at a boxing gym until you get fired for punching a customer, but by then your girlfriend is pregnant and talking about wanting to get married and settle down. You need a nest egg. So you call up some baddies.”

“Uh-huh,” Alaric said.

“And you tell them you’ve got this great idea. To rob an armored car in broad daylight.”

“Yeah.”

“And then — they double-cross you!” She held her hands up in horror and indignation.

“You think he knows that they’re all equally liable for at least one man’s death on account of how he was killed while they were all committing a felony?”

“That’s a good question. Do you think he knows that the first to talk is the only one who will get a chance to make a deal?”

“This is wrong,” Markos said, his eyebrows knitted in the middle and his hands tight in fists. “They set me up. They played me.”

“My friend Detective Bennett here seems pretty sure that the only way in which you’ve actually been set up is that your partners took the money while you ended up with blood all over your hands. And your jacket.”

“And on your shoes. So also in your car. I mean, really? Daylight robbery? Don't you even watch television?”

Markos’s nostrils flared.

“I want a lawyer,” he said.

“Magic words,” Bonnie said. “Excellent. We’ll have you escorted back to a cell. First sober public defender we can find, we’ll send him in, unless you think your brother’s fancy hot shot in-house attorney has the time of day for you?”

Heading back to his desk, feeling pretty pleased with himself, Alaric felt a buzz in his pocket. A photo came through, and then the phone rang.

“Connor,” he said, grinning. “Where are you?”

“Thought you were a history buff. If you don’t know that building we can’t be friends anymore.”

“Oh, we’re friends now?”

“Ish. Of course, I got a couple of friends who I’m closer to.”

So he hadn’t lost the tail.

“Just remember — if they offer you candy, shout for a grown-up.”

“Copy that. Any news?”

“Yeah, I replaced you with a younger model. She’s great.” In the back of his mind, Alaric had been thinking about the possibility that Connor might end up needing a new partner. He could do a hell of a lot worse than Bonnie.

“Breaking my heart, Saltzman. I’m out.”

“Drive safe.”

“You, too.”

Alaric ended the call. Fifty-five seconds. He nodded and headed to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. He found Liv snarling at the vending machine.

“It stole my money and it won’t give me my deep-fried carbohydrates,” she said. Alaric passed her a five dollar note and she snatched it from his hand, feeding it into the machine. “Luke called. The wallet arrived. Ben signed for it.”

A packet of what could only loosely be described as food tumbled from the machine. Liv pocketed the change and shook the bag at Alaric. “Lunch. I have to run. Sniper training this afternoon.”

“With carb crash,” Alaric said, raising his eyebrows at the can of coke she had just opened. “What are they letting you get away with these days?”

“Blow me, lover-boy,” she said, and she was gone.

 

 

Damon and Ben sat across from each other at the coffee table on the floor with a pack of cards; they’d graduated from Egyptian Rat Screw to War, but Damon couldn’t hold the rules in his head for long enough to stick with it. Poker was out of the question because he had no money and in his own words there was _no point in playing poker for mini-pretzels because it’s disgusting to eat them when they’ve been pawed at like that_. His guileless suggestion that as Ben and Ric were about the same size and shape strip poker might be an option was met with a cynical eyebrow twitch. Ben had to have learned deadpan from Ric. Or vice versa, whatever.

So now, they were reduced to Go Fish, with the TV on for background noise.

“Is this still Saltzman’s favorite movie?” Ben asked.

“Yep.”

“How many times have you seen it?”

“I’ve seen the first half a bunch of times. I’m usually talking Ric out of his clothes by the time Jason Bourne is beating a guy to death with a magazine. You got any sevens?”

“Go Fish. You’d think with the amount of time he’s spent being shot at, he’d like something a little less… I don’t know, maybe he should be more into romantic comedies or something. Got any eights?”

“His favorite romantic comedy is the first Die Hard movie, so.” Damon tossed an eight down in front of Ben. All these little things, all these stupid little things he’d been missing so fucking much. Everything ached. Days away, now, if everything went right, but it still felt like things could go wrong.

“Have you seen him?”

“Yeah,” Ben replied, putting his cards face down, crossing his arms on the coffee table.

“How bad was he hurt?”

Ben shrugged. “Don’t worry about that. Not now.” But he was no match for Damon’s steely gaze. “It was bad. He’s got some scars that are hard to look at. His side, his leg, ankles — and his face, but you’ve seen that photograph from the paper, right?”

Damon was instantly defensive. “They suit him. He _survived_.”

“You asked. But just keep that in mind, alright? He had skin grafts that didn’t take well. He can’t move the way he used to. On the upside, you now have PTSD in common, so there’s that.” Ben climbed to his feet and headed to the mini bar, grabbing a couple of beers. “I’d consider it a personal favor if you encouraged him to get some help. I think he decided not to do anything about it until he knew you were safe. You know he was the only person who believed you were innocent, right? Things might have changed, Damon. But they haven’t changed much.”

Damon closed his eyes, and he could see it all in brilliant color, all the moments that he’d been clinging to. It still seemed so strange to think they’d been together only a few months, before all of this. He thought about the day they’d met, the look in Alaric’s eyes when he thought he was going to die. The first time they’d kissed, on the patio, after everyone else had left the party. The night Alaric had told him he’d been called up and had to go on another deployment. How they’d fought, the tears of frustration and anger. He let out a shaky breath.

“Just get me a beer, and tell me if you have any kings.”

 

 

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Liv said. “And could you repeat the meal choices again?”

The flight attendant handed Liv a menu and smiled a very professional smile which still managed to look completely exhausted. Poor guy probably had a boyfriend in every city and had been thoroughly worn out in Atlanta.

“Mushroom risotto, Atlantic salmon and I’ll have that chocolate thing I can’t pronounce for dessert.” This was it; her life was ruined. One business class flight and never again was Liv going to be able to fly coach. Across the aisle sat a man who was so incredibly _cop_ that his eyes flashed blue and red. He asked for a soda. Dead giveaway.

“So,” she said, flicking through the channels on her personal television. “This is nice, right?” She was careful to make strong eye contact. Liv had an incredible recall for detail. But she wanted to be certain he _knew_ she would recognize him as well.

“It sure smells good,” he said.

“No, I just meant —” she dropped her voice almost theatrically. “As the sky marshal, you probably don’t get to sit in business class too often, right? Gotta be back there in cattle class where the bad guys are more likely to be. Or is that profiling?”

He laughed it off, but Liv saw the muscle in his jaw working. A jump in his pulse at the temple.

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. Aren’t you going to ask how I knew?”

His nostrils flared. “I don’t want to interrupt your movie.”

“Yeah,” she said, ignoring him. She smiled at the attendant as he placed her drink on a very deluxe looking napkin on the drink holder atop her arm rest. “I’m a cop. Atlanta.”

“Let me guessing, parking inspector?” He was annoyed. Very. She laughed.

“SWAT. Actually a long-range specialist. I could shoot a tick off a dime at 500 feet.”

The marshal flared his nostrils. “Can’t be an easy thing to talk about at a party. So easy for it to sound like a threat, you know?”

He turned and met Liv’s eyes, and she gave him a wide, beaming smile, innocent as the snow is white. “I just avoid partying with bad guys. And look, here’s my appetizer. I’ll let you get back to your sudoku.”

When the plane landed, Liv pulled her brand new, very petite suitcase from the locker above her seat. Fresh as a daisy. Or at least a daisy that’s been trapped in an airborne sardine can for about six hours. She made no effort to avoid being seen by the cameras, and it took about forty seconds to identify her replacement stalkers. Something about feds. Like they were grown in a lab, and didn’t know what normal people wore. Or at least that they had tried to figure it out from a manual. One of them was ahead of her in the line to rent a car — she was careful, made sure he had a chance to get out before her. Let him chat to her when they got to the rental lot. He crouched by the tire well and pointed out a scratch, told her to check it was on the condition report.

“It’s there,” she said. “Good eye.”

The drive was quicker than she thought it would be. It was close to midnight, though, by the time she pulled into the familiar driveway and headed inside.

“You must be tired,” her father said. “I’ve made up your room.”

“I am, but I’m expecting some visitors.” She carried her things upstairs, and called down; “who else is here?”

“Just us,” her father said. “Olivia, what’s going on?”

“I’ll explain after. Do you want to make some tea?”

When the Washington State Highway Patrol, and two FBI agents, knocked on the door a half hour later, Olivia beamed and opened the door.

“Always have time for my fellow boys in blue,” she said. She handed the GPS tracker to an annoyed-looking agent in — yep — a black suit. He tried not to flinch but failed. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“We know Damon Salvatore is here, Officer Parker,” the man said. “Make this easy on yourself. You have no idea what a dangerous man he is.”

“Oh, no, I’ve heard all about him,” she replied, frowning. “It’s strange, though — what made you think he’d be in Washington? I thought he was last seen on the east coast.”

It had been worth the drama to be fed a four-course meal in the sky, but this, this was better.

“You’re free to come in and have a look around. Dad? Are you hiding any fugitives from justice?”

“No,” he said flatly. “You’re welcome to look around, but for your reference, this house is full of priceless cultural and historical artifacts, and anything you break is going to result in me calling my dear friend the Governor — we have a standing appointment for Sunday morning golf, and if I miss it because I’m calculating damages, he won’t be happy.”

The FBI agent currently not gripping tight to a GPS tracker cleared his throat.

“Are you aware of the penalties for wasting the time of federal agents, Officer Parker? I’d be happy to explain them to you. At length.”

“I’m just here to visit my father,” she replied. “If you’re looking for Damon, and you assume I flew across the country to, what, deliver him some protein bars? That’s on you. Now, my father and I are tired. If you want to search the place, search. But he wasn’t joking about the artifacts.”

 

A couple of hours later, she shot Alaric a text message. Brief and to the point. The winking, tongue-out emoji and the sign of the horns.

 

 

 

**One day out… and a half**

 

Close to three in the morning, Alaric’s phone rang. He had it held to his ear almost before he was awake, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and reaching blindly for the light switch.

“Ric.”

“Steve?”

“Is this line secure?”

Alaric rubbed his eyes. He was awake, now. Alert. His brain was only just beginning to catch up to this fact, though.

“I don’t think so.”

Steve was quiet for a long moment. “Alright. I’m sending a buddy of mine to your place with a secure sat phone. I’ll call you on that number in an hour.”

Fifty-eight minutes later, Alaric was sitting in his car at the edge of a parking lot next to one of the only diners he knew would be open at this time of the morning. He had a coffee — alright, that’s a lie. He had _two_ coffees, one almost finished and the other ready to go. He needed the caffeine desperately, despite the way his heart was thumping in his chest.

Steve was, of course, exactly punctual. And it was only… almost ten at night, in Honolulu.

“I take it you got my package,” Alaric said, yawning. “Thanks for calling. You had time to look into it, yet?”

“We’ve been at it since seven o’clock this morning. Ric, this is bad. This is really, really bad.” His voice sounded hoarse.

“It’s all true.”

“Yeah, we’re getting that impression. Jerry’s been verifying Damon’s testimony all day. So far, it all tracks. Can’t be sure, but we think we might have some names, too.”

“The Bureau?”

“Yeah. This goes a lot deeper than even Damon knows. Some of these guys were responsible for bungling a major trafficking case here on Oahu four years ago — people, arms and drugs. And six months later, almost four million dollars worth of firearms disappeared from the HPD impound locker from the bust. Ric, you know I can’t sit on this, right?”

“I don’t want you to sit on it. I want you to blow it wide open. As soon as Damon is safe.”

“And when is that going to be?”

Alaric looked at his watch. He wished he believed in something, anything, other than hard work and dumb luck because it felt like a good time to pray.“If nothing goes wrong in the next few hours, he’ll be touching down in Honolulu by the time you’re ready to throw a fish on the grill. Could use an escort, if you know a guy. I don’t want the FBI taking him. He’d be dead in a few hours. No one I don’t know and trust.”

“And you? I guess you’ll be following him out here?”

“Not yet. I’ve still got eyes on me. I’m not doing anything to draw attention to myself. Except, you know. Accepting mysterious visitors in the small hours of the morning, and sitting in the parking lot of Atlanta’s best 24-hour coffee joint, talking on a satellite phone.”

In the background, Alaric heard Danny talking. Coffee. Malasadas. He was nothing if not consistent.

“You don’t need sugar at this time of the night, Danny, there’s vegetable sticks in the fridge.” And then to Alaric, “Alright. I hear you, buddy. It’s gonna be okay, okay? I have friends high up in the Bureau who are gonna tear this apart. After we have Damon safe somewhere.”

“I’ll call you with the flight details an hour before he lands. Please, Steve. Look after him, alright?”

“Yeah, pal. I promise.” Alaric chewed his lip for a moment. “Ric? You there?”

“He did it because he thought I was dead. You know that?”

“We’re gonna fix this. I’ll get something in place. Police protection somewhere there’s plenty of eyes and plenty of cameras. Only people I know personally on watch.”

“I need one more favor.”

“This isn’t a favor, Ric, this is justice. This is me making sure these scumbags get everything that’s coming to them. You need a favor too, you get one. Shoot.”

“I need you to call Captain Finch at the APD and tell him what’s happening. He needs to hear it from someone other than me, and I need to know he won’t get in the way of me leaving when it’s time.”

“Alright. I’ll call him as soon as Damon’s safe. Don’t worry, Ric, alright? I’m out. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Turn the phone off until then.”

And he ended the call.

Alaric sat listening to his engine cooling down and Atlanta waking up, drinking his coffee slowly and wondering if there is a point at which cortisol actually becomes poisonous to the body. He could taste the metallic tang in his mouth, feel the weight of his interminable stress headache wearing him down a little at a time.

No point in trying to get any sleep now. He headed to the gym for an early workout and made it to the precinct by seven thirty.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So close they can almost taste it.

**One day out**

 

The shortest drive was the last day. Connor had taken it very, very easy, though. No point in arriving too early, that was always just a pain in the ass. He knew where the hotel was. He knew how long it would take him to get there. So he stopped for breakfast and to read most of the newspaper, and also to wonder if his friends had actually changed cars or if at some point in the night they’d actually switched shifts.

It was fucking cold. As he loped back out to his car, he fastened his leather jacket and tied his scarf around his neck just one additional loop.

There.

He called Alaric.

“You know,” he said, when Alaric answered the phone, “at this point I think I’m ready to admit that I’m genuinely insulted. I don’t know what kind of shitty training they think we cops get in Georgia but this tail wouldn’t fool a boy scout. No, it would. But even someone just a little less paranoid than I am would have spotted it.”

Alaric chuckled. “How’s the weather?”

“Fucking cold. There was a lot of snow overnight, I hear.”

“Are you on your way to the hotel?”

“Sure am. How’d Parker go last night?”

“Eh, if she ever had a fan club in Washington I think it’s probably disbanded.”

“Really well, then.”

“Yeah.”

Connor checked his watch. Just over thirty seconds.

“Anyway. I should go. I have a party to get to, you feel?” He glanced in the rear view mirror again. Just a sliver of a gray sedan was visible past the gas station wall. “Good luck.”

“You, too, man. Be careful.”

Fifteen minutes later, Connor handed his keys to a valet and headed inside to talk to the reception clerk. He took a swipe card that had been left for him, and headed up to the fourth floor. The corridor gave him the creeps, but all hotels made him think of The Shining and probably always would. With his duffel tossed over his shoulder, he let himself into the hotel room.

It didn’t take them long to be knocking at the door, demanding to be let in. Quicker than he would have thought.

He opened the door.

“We’re here to arrest Damon Salvatore,” said a man in a very inconspicuous black suit. Very, very inconspicuous. Those FBI boys had to be paid pretty damn good.

“He’s in Colorado?” Connor said, feigning surprise. “Oh, you think he’s _here_? Come in, boys, have a look around. Be careful in the bathroom. I’ve been driving three days, eating nothing but burritos, and I just dropped a deuce.”

“Hello?” came a very cautious voice at the door.

“Atticus,” Connor said. “Come in. Never mind my friends. They’ve been following me all the way from Atlanta, think I’m here to meet some fugitive. Say, you’re not on the run from some big-league New York crime family, are you?”

Atticus shook his head. “No. Still a humble professor of physics. Are we still okay to go snowboarding? There’s good powder in the hills.”

“Nothing, sir,” said a uniformed cop, stepping back into the living room from the second bedroom.

“And there you have it, gentlemen. You want to maybe go, now? We’ve got slopes to hit. If you need to keep running surveillance on me for a few days, well, you gotta do what you gotta do. Far be it from me to get in the way of justice.”

 

 

Damon was fucking starving.

“You should have eaten at the hotel,” Ben said. He was driving a _hire car_. He had _hired_ a _car_. In _New York City_. Whether it was because he was genuinely concerned (as he claimed) that the government’s facial recognition program might be covertly extended to taxis (which sounded like bullshit, but Damon was too paranoid to dismiss it) or whether he actually just felt he owed it to Alaric to at least make sure he arrived at the airport, Damon didn’t know.

“You should blow yourself.”

“If I could, I absolutely would,” Ben replied, nodding in agreement. “And you would, too. Don’t deny it. Feeling okay?”

“No. I’m starving. And I think I’m about to get arrested in an airport and sent to a jail cell where I’ll be found dead before lunch. You?”

“Yeah, I’m good too,” Ben said, ignoring the melodrama like he didn’t even know how this worked. Not that much like Alaric at all, in the end. “This traffic is shit. Good thing we left early.” So sanguine. Damon wanted to punch him, but he’d grown attached, so he decided against it.

They weren’t going to be _too_ early, Damon hoped; he didn’t want to linger anywhere. He had a general plan to avoid giving any camera a good look at him, but he was mostly banking on the fact that facial recognition software wasn’t nearly as good in real life as it was in the movies (let alone Ben’s imagination; he’d been musing out loud about genre-busting for too many days now and it was endearing, sure, but also as annoying as shit). He wanted to arrive in time to breeze through security and straight onto the plane, where he planned to indulge in a very severe panic attack, with his teeth clenched tightly, until they’d been in the air for long enough so the seat belt sign was turned off.

And then he thought he might throw up in relief. And then: and then, only then, he would eat some goddamn breakfast and settle in for his twelve-hour flight.

He wished he could have spoken to Alaric again, but they all knew the risks. Also, he hoped that this other SEAL guy wasn’t actually on the take as well, though he conceded that if he was going to be executed in a jail cell, Honolulu was probably a more cheerful place to die than New York City.

“Oh, my god, Damon, you’re putting off the worst goddamn vibes. Would you just try to relax?”

“You think I’m not?” he growled. “You know what — listen. If I die today, can you just tell Alaric I love him. And… tell him I would have married him. No, don’t say that, that’s a stupid thing to say.” He glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Just tell him something. You’re the writer.”

“No,” Ben said. “Tell him yourself when he gets to Honolulu.”

Damon touched the side of his face, where the bruising and the split were still brightest, and most painful. The bandaids weren’t doing much for the split. He palpated his face softly. Better to remember how painful pain is when you’re about to go begging for more, maybe?

It was unexpected, but not unwelcome, when Ben hugged him tight at the airport. Damon wondered if it would be the last time he ever touched anyone. He wasn’t prepared to count whichever cop put him in handcuffs.

 

 

Damon was true to his word. He could barely breathe all the way through the airport, through the security gates, wandering through the food court and finally sitting at the gate with his face turned carefully (yet, he thought, quite casually) away from the two cameras in his eye line. Damon was pretty good with disguises. He could walk into a room fully confident that he could make everyone there pay attention or he could shrink into himself, like he was doing now. Barely anyone even made eye contact. Possibly because he still looked a little shabby and his shitty sports bag full of second hand clothes would have been a source of mild embarrassment, for most.

(He’d contemplated tossing it all out, but Ben wisely pointed out that no one goes to Hawaii without any kind of luggage, and he would do better to avoid anyone commenting on it. Stupid writers. Always thinking of plot holes.)

Even the sunglasses he was wearing looked shabby; not from being bought in a second-hand store, but because they’d been kicking around in the bottom of the enormous messenger bag Ben dragged with him everywhere he went, and the lenses were a little scratched up.

The sunglasses. Ah, the sunglasses; the argument for or against had been a fierce one. Ben felt certain that they would draw more attention.

“What kind of a pretentious asshole is walking around wearing sunglasses inside?”

“Actually, _Benjamin_ , the world is absolutely jam-packed with pretentious assholes. Some of them wear sunglasses inside. Some of them claim to be post-hipster. Some of them write gay porn and fancy it up by calling it queer literary fiction. And wear Converse sneakers past the age of thirty. And do we criticize them?”

“Apparently, yes.” Ben had laughed. He wasn’t very easy to rule up. It was a very attractive quality. In the end Damon hadn’t been able to get out of the car before they were on his face; the flimsiest curtain between himself and those fucking security cameras.

And now, sitting huddled at the gate and feeling more and more eyes on him, he was starting to think Ben might have been right.

Of all of the shitty moments that he had survived over the last few years, this was not… — was **_not_** going to be the one that broke him. So close to safe, so close to _free_ , the plane right there outside the window and the aerobridge about to be engaged — he imagined himself making a break for it, hiding in the luggage hold or something. Once he was in Hawaii, he would be safe. Right? Sleep in the jungle and hunt… ugh, ew, hunting. Eating pineapples, then. Stealing fries off the plates of tourists like a seagull. So close, and so far away. And there were security guards staring him down and crossing to his seat.

He was fucked.

So if tears burned his eyes, if he could no longer pretend he wasn’t shaking with fear and exhaustion and wishing Ben had just decided to come for a joy ride, no one could really blame him.

He’d get a phone call. At least he’d be able to say goodbye.

Damon tried not to look, as the security guards approached, but he startled when one of the flight attendants stepped into their path. He spoke quietly, but Damon was almost certain he’d heard “… try to talk to people like human beings before we drag them off to an interrogation room, alright? Give me a couple of minutes.”

Not that it made a difference. Damon clenched his teeth and watched as the flight attendant approached, and sat down in the seat on the other side of Damon’s ugly old duffel.

“Hi,” he said. Damon nodded curtly. “Is it alright if we talk for a minute?”

“I watched a documentary about sloths last night. Or did you have a specific topic in mind?”

The attendant chuckled quietly. “What’s your name?”

“James. Taylor,” Damon answered.

“I’m Craig, I’m the cabin manager today. Do you have any luggage checked?”

“Nope.”

“Is it okay if I look in the bag?”

Damon just nodded. Craig pawed around for a while and then zipped it back up. “Not exactly a wardrobe for Hawaii.”

_Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck._

This seemed so unfair. Everyone was suspicious, just because he was behaving extremely suspiciously. He needed a lie, and fast, but he was too tired to come up with anything. So he went for the truth.

“This bag? Contains every piece of clothing I own, except for what I’m wearing. If I don’t fit in in Hawaii I will just have to scrape together the cash for a pair of board shorts. Or steal some off a clothes line.”

“Where are you staying in Honolulu? You need to have a hotel booked ahead, or…”

“With a friend. Steve McGarrett. He’s a cop. Ex Navy SEAL running a task force on Oahu, if you want to call him to confirm. Good friend of the Governor’s. It’s all last minute. I am sorry if my luggage isn’t fancy enough and all my clothes are wrong. Okay? I am sorry. It’s been a very, _very_ bad week.”

“You look a little bit like someone they’ve been looking for,” Craig said, kind, firm, matter-of-fact. “I’m going to need you to take off the sunglasses.”

Damon sighed. This was it. He was fucked. The tears he had been holding back pooled against his lashes and began to run down his cheeks as he pulled the sunglasses off and looked Craig in the eye, so he could compare Damon’s face to the photograph on the alert he had in his hand. Come what may. Dead might be preferable, at this point.

Craig looked as if he might flinch, but he stopped himself. He took in the healing black eyes, the split down the side of Damon’s face (his hair had been hiding it a little, but now — nope, _here, look at me, aren’t I handsome_. Damon tried to pull away and the edge of his sleeve scooted up to reveal the white bandages covering the injuries to his wrists, which should have been treated days ago and probably needed antibiotics.

Craig nodded, and though his expression remained professional, his eyes had warmed somewhat.

“No problem. I’ll see if I can’t get you an upgrade, give you some privacy.”

Damon could have had a stroke right then and there.

“Thank you,” he managed to splutter, but Craig was already talking to the security guards, shaking his head, waving them off, before heading for the desk.

Sitting alone in a business class row fifteen minutes later, clutching a glass of Jack Daniels in his hand and waiting for the seatbelt sign to come on, Damon breathed out for the first time in months, and just let himself cry. Quietly, in fact almost soundlessly, his face turned to the window and tears running down his cheeks.

Once they were in the air, and after he’d chosen his lunch, Damon had a couple more drinks, though he intended to keep his head as clear as he could. He flinched slightly when Craig sat down, after the lunch service had been cleared away, in the empty seat alongside him.

“I just wanted a word.”

Damon shifted uncomfortably. “ _Vermillion_. All yours, buddy.” He sounded prickly and disinterested. Couldn’t have said what his problem was — Craig had been perfectly nice, and it wasn’t as if Damon was ever going to see him again, but he was feeling scrutinized, felt like Craig had made some assumptions Damon really wasn’t comfortable with.

“I just wanted to say — I think you’re very brave. And you’re doing the right thing.”

Damon’s head whipped around so fast he felt something screech. “What?”

“It doesn’t matter what they say. It always happens again. Until you start thinking it really is your fault.”

Alright, so, maybe Damon wasn’t being belted around by a partner; but he was sure as shit being belted around by his life. He clenched his teeth, and said nothing.

“It’s never your fault. Don’t go back, alright? Make a new life. With someone who makes it easier to sleep, not harder.”

Damon stared at his lap. This wasn’t the first time someone had been unexpectedly, unnecessarily, excessively kind since he’d escaped from that fucking wine cellar. And that was before everything that Alaric had done to keep him alive and deliver him somewhere safe. He was going to have to readjust his entire outlook on humans.

Craig stood up, clearly not expecting to get any kind of reply. Damon reached out and touched the sleeve of his shirt. “Thanks,” he said.

Craig nodded. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll wake you for dinner.”

 

 

Late in the evening, wishing he was literally anywhere else doing something actually _useful_ , Alaric sat on the porch, on his favorite chair. It was wide, strong, and comfortable, and Damon (who wasn’t exactly a big guy but also was not _all_ that small, no matter how much shit Alaric liked to give him) would join him on it, curled against his side or sprawled across his chest. Like a cat. Always looking for somewhere warm to rest, eager for hands on him.

He turned on the satellite phone and called Steve’s number.

“6.20 pm Hawaii time,” he said.

“Copy that. We’ll be there in plenty of time. The FBI is involved, now. Good guys, I promise. Once we’ve got him in protective custody things will start moving fast. You booked yourself a flight yet?”

“Figured I should wait and see what kind of fallout there is, first. I’m not painting a trail for the wrong people to follow.”

“You’ll be fine. Just maintain —”

“ — _situational awareness_ , yes, I haven’t forgotten all that much, okay? Just a bit slower than I used to be.”

“Get some sleep, Ric. You’ll need it.”

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon is safe, and Alaric is on his way.

By the time flight A7683 from La Guardia to Honolulu International had touched down, everything was set up perfectly. Absolutely no room for failure. Steve had FBI and HPD in uniforms and plain clothes all the way from the gates to the parking lot, because he was pretty sure he’d have to fight Alaric to the death if anything happened to Damon.

“Think this is just a little bit excessive, babe?” Danny asked, holding his finger and thumb about a centimeter apart.

“Would you think it was excessive is it was Grace or Charlie?”

“Point taken.”

Danny stretched, and they watched as the aerobridge was extended. A security guard escorted them down the gangway, and a few moments later, Damon emerged, looking haunted, clutching a gym bag and though Steve wasn’t going to mention it, he was shaking just slightly.

“Damon Salvatore,” Steve said, flashing his badge. “Steve McGarrett, Five-0, and this is my partner, Danny Williams. You got everything? You okay?”

A good lot of the tension seemed to drain from Damon’s bones, and he managed a smile. He also unapologetically looked Steve up and down.

“Damn. They ever let anyone ugly into the SEALs? This is it. All I own in the world.”

“Then let’s go. We’re putting you in protective custody at the Hilton.”

“You can swim with the dolphins when this is over. You alright? Look like you might fall over, babe. Anyone looked at that cut on your face? Other than everyone you walk past, I mean.” Danny was talking with his hands, trying to look relaxed, but he was coiled like a cat, eyes darting everywhere.

“No,” Damon said. “And I think my wrists might be infected. So if you could take me somewhere I can drink until I’m unconscious —”

“Or a doctor, I’m just saying.”

“Either way,” Damon said, nodding a greeting to the uniformed cops, and a couple of plain clothes guys too, which Steve had to applaud.

“You can vouch for everyone?” he asked. Not afraid; he actually sounded kind of angry. “Because I have to be honest — right now, trust isn’t coming very easy to me. I’m sure you understand.”

“All good people,” Steve said, with a nod. “You’re safe here, I can promise you that.”

Damon clenched his jaw and nodded.

By the time they were a couple of blocks from the Hilton, Damon was squirming like a cat in a bath, gripping the door handle so tight his knuckles were white, his skin almost gray. But he was trying to stay relaxed. Steve could see it. Danny had a close eye on him in the back seat.

“Easy, buddy,” Danny said quietly, and Damon closed his eyes. Didn’t look like the praying type, but Steve would have bet that was what he was doing. Sometimes, he thought, there didn’t seem to be much else to do.

They escorted him into the Hilton, up in the elevator, Steve checking identification on the cops in the corridor and giving the suite a final once-over before Damon stepped inside.

And then… Damon sort of… collapsed. Like the tension he’d been holding himself together with just snapped. Like a rubber band. Steve caught him under the arm and hauled him to the couch, where he sat with his head between his knees, just breathing until he was at least somewhat collected.

A few minutes passed before Damon lifted his head.

“You saw nothing,” he said to Steve. “Alright? Nothing.”

Yeah, exactly like a cat. Steve could see why Alaric liked him.

 

 

The suite was Fancy with a capital F. Once Damon was no longer seeing spots and had moved on to denying he’d almost passed out with sheer relief, that was the next thing he noticed. They’d picked out this particular room because there was a living room in it and it was safer to have people come to him to ask their thousands of stupid questions than for Damon to be escorted around the city. Especially the way Steve drove. Big fruit basket on the kitchen counter (as if anyone who could afford to stay in a place like this would be cooking on holiday), so many stupid pillows on the bed that Damon couldn’t even find the blanket, genuine paintings on the wall instead of mass-market reproductions. The shower head was the size of a dinner plate. Damon wanted a long, luxurious shower asap. And then sleep. Sleep would be an interesting challenge since the sun was still up, but his body was battling even standing upright, so he doubted it would be too big a problem.

He flinched at a knock on the door, but Danny opened it to a doctor. She was pretty, local. Her name had 26 syllables in it, and she suggested he just call her Nia. They all sat at the dining table so she could properly debride the mess on his wrists while Steve and Danny told him about what had been happening the last few days.

“You’ve got a hell of a memory, friend,” Danny said. “Everything you said on those tapes we’ve been able to corroborate, so far. Everything. Still missing a lot of real names, unfortunately, but we’ve got photos for some — we hired a conspiracy theorist a few years back which turned out to be a very sensible thing to do because he really likes stupidly complicated mysteries. He’s drunk about two cases of those goofy energy drinks in the last couple of days and he’ll probably treat you like a celebrity when you meet.”

Damon nodded. He’d been such a mess when he made those tapes that he thought he might have fucked up half the details — but apparently not. He also cringed as the disinfectant burned the skin that was healing, badly, around his wrists.

“Now you’re safe, we’re pulling the pin on this grenade; soon as I send this text message things will start to happen,” Steve added. “In a few hours there will be multiple arrests of high-ranked FBI agents across several states, and most likely some of the crime family you were working for.”

“You’d better leave me a bulletproof vest.”

“We brought one for you. You don’t leave this room without it. In fact for the time being, you don’t leave at all. Room service here is good.”

“I bet,” Damon drawled. He tried to sound disinterested, but after weeks of missing meals and eating gas station jerky, he was looking forward to a series of about thirty consecutive cheat days.

The doctor switched places and began to work on his right wrist, which was considerably more disgusting.

“I’m leaving you some antibiotics,” she said. “Six days, and then we’ll reevaluate. I’ll come to change the dressings every day and see how you’re doing. We can do an IV here, if necessary.”

“I’m pretty tough,” Damon said, though in truth, the way she was handling him so gently was making his chest ache. He turned back to Danny and Steve. “Tell me I don’t have to start interviews tonight. I’m exhausted. I need to call Ric and I need to sleep. Heavily. In a comfortable bed. With an armed protection detail.”

“No, we can go.” Steve took a burner phone out of one of the thousands of pockets he had on his tac vest. “Number’s on a sticker on the back. It’s charged. It’s not secure, so be careful, but I think things should be alright, now. Five-0 isn’t in the business of losing people in protective custody.” He handed Damon a card. “You can get me anytime, I sleep light.”

“That’s a lie. He could sleep through a hurricane. I think it’s a SEAL thing. But I sleep light, and my number is on there too, and I will wake him up.”

“Ric’s is on the back,” Steve added, a little softer. “I sent him a message after we left the airport. I think he’ll still be awake, somehow.”

And they left. Nia spent another twenty minutes or so, carefully dressing his wrists, putting a couple of sutures in his face (he protested, but she made the very reasonable point that if the thing wasn’t staying closed after over a week it probably wasn’t going to). She took blood, checked his blood pressure, and gently suggested at gunpoint that he should get a chest x-ray because some of his ribs were almost certainly broken.

Pfft. Ribs. Not like you could get a cast on those. She left him some pain killers as well as the antibiotics, and then she left.

And then it was just Damon, and the phone.

He found a beer in the mini bar, and twisted off the cap, and then carried the phone to the big, deep, comfy couch. The sun was starting to kiss the horizon and he had to admit, it was a very pretty sight.

The phone had rung for about half a second when Alaric answered it. “Hello?” he asked. Optimistic, but cautious enough to avoid anything dumb like saying Damon’s name, in case it wasn’t him.

“It’s me,” he said. “I got to the honeymoon and you’re not even here.”

“You’re alive. You’re alright? Are you in protective custody?”

“And then some,” Damon said. “Lap of luxury. Huu _u_ ** _u_** _g_ e bed. I suggest you get your ass over here and share it with me. When are you getting here?”

“Oh, Damon. Fuck. I wish I could just get on the first flight, but I have to deal with APD first. Got a message to meet Captain Finch in the morning, which I assume means someone from over there called him. We’re clearing your name, Damon. It’s gonna be alright. I miss you. I wish I was there right now.”

“I’ve got wounds you could kiss better. I’m gonna be scarred for life. I’m planning for them to be extremely sexy, like yours are.”

Alaric was silent for a moment, and then he chuckled. “You saw the paper,” he said. Wasn’t a question.

“I did, I did, and I’m glad you’re alive so I can spend the next few years fixating unhealthily on how good you look, all beat to shit and still standing. That can be our couples costume. Forever.”

“Forever,” Alaric agreed. His voice was rough. “You sound exhausted. You should get some sleep.”

Damon snorted in irritation. At his body, mostly.

“I know, I know. And you have that meeting in the morning. Just…” He let his gaze drift out the window. “You’ll be here soon, right?”

“Couple of days at the most. And I’ll call you with updates whenever I can. Just stay safe. Do whatever Steve and Danny tell you to, they’re good people. We have so much to talk about.”

“I love you,” Damon said.

“I love you, too,” Alaric replied. “I swear the last few days I’ve felt like I might never see you again. Now, go. Sleep. Text me in the morning.”

Damon showered much faster than he’d planned to, and he was asleep by the time his head hit the pillow.

 

 

Alaric brought coffee and donuts, because Captain Finch had no qualms about police clichés, and _really_ liked his donuts. He was a huge barrel of muscle, too, so Alaric had always assumed he had a metabolism like a bullet train. He held the cardboard tray in one hand and knocked with the other.

Finch looked a little gray, under his glossy, dark brown skin. He waved Alaric into the chair opposite his desk. Alaric handed him the coffee, and took his own. Nether said a word for a couple of minutes.

“You know, my entire career, I’ve followed my instincts,” he said. “And when it looked like Damon had taken the money and the drugs — all the evidence was there, but a part of me refused to think he could have done it. Even when he confessed. I still couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t even imagine you being capable of being in a relationship with someone who had the capability to do something like that.” He shook his head, looking dejected. “And I _ignored_ it. I keep thinking about how this could have gone different — if I’d believed you when you told me he was undercover, tried to help you find something out… truth is if he’d reached out to me I would have turned him in. And he’d probably be dead, and I’d have to live with it. But you,” he said, crossing his arms on his modest, tidy desk and leaning in, “you never doubted him for a minute, did you?”

“Damon’s no saint. But he would never do that. He hated the life his father raised him in, and he’d never have gone back to it. Never. Unless it was for UC work. So.”

Finch nodded, and reached for the bag of donuts.

“I understand he’s in protective custody?”

“Yeah. Needs to be, for a while. I heard on the wire that the arrests have started. He’s not setting foot out the door until it’s safe.”

“Good.” Finch nodded. “I addressed SWAT this morning. A lot of sorry faces in that room, I can tell you that. Might want to keep your dance card clear tonight. I think there will be a few people knocking on your door with beer and pizza.”

Alaric wanted to see them. He did. He was even relieved enough to set aside the anger at his old team, the anger that had been simmering for months with no outlet. He didn’t blame them, he really didn’t, but he was still angry. “Might need to find a way to discourage that for now,” he said, and hoped the message might be passed along.

“There are two FBI agents here who want to speak to you,” Finch said. “I assume you’ll want to leave as soon as you can. I need you here today — to do that, and finish up a couple of reports. But feel free to book yourself a flight to…?”

“The undisclosed location?” Alaric deadpanned. “I’m not sharing that information with anyone. Not until Damon is safe.”

Finch looked annoyed, for a moment, and then he shook his head. “Okay. Yes. Tomorrow. Your FBI pals are in conference room 5C. Have fun. Try not to be a smartass.” Finch pulled the bag of doughnuts closer, and Alaric left.

The interview was concise. Alaric handed over the bugs he had found in his house, now carefully tucked away in evidence bags, and told them his side of the story — including the tap on his phone, and the lengths that Enzo had gone to to make sure someone was invested in clearing Damon’s name. All of it. He got the impression it was common knowledge that he and Damon were in a relationship, which was a clear violation of APD policy, but no one had any interest in pursuing that. Alaric was just careful to make sure he didn’t confirm or deny anything that wasn’t relevant.

“You had two colleagues assisting. Olivia Parker and Connor Jordan. They seem to have deliberately deceived police —”

“Or, you could look at it this way — they were both taking vacation leave when they were harassed by the bureau and local PD. That’s accurate as well.”

The two men were almost indistinguishable from each other, except that one had a cleft chin. Agent Cleft Chin looked like he knew when it wasn’t worth pursuing something. Agent No Cleft Chin, who might have been a fraction younger, looked disappointed that Alaric hadn’t ripped his shirt off and run down the street waving a gun.

“You’ll be called to testify.”

“I can’t wait.”

There didn’t seem to be much more to say, after that. Alaric returned to his desk. The whole thing was top secret, so of course, everyone knew what was happening. Alaric put his head down and resisted the urge to reach for his phone. After all, it was still dark in Hawaii, and Damon needed rest. Lots of it.

Tomorrow, though. He’d see him tomorrow.

He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a strip of photographs they’d taken in a booth about a thousand years ago. They looked ridiculously carefree in the photos. Alaric wondered if they could ever feel that way again.

 

 

Maybe it was ridiculous, but Alaric bought a plane ticket for the following day to Los Angeles only. The news of arrests had spread widely, and he figured it was probably excessive, but he couldn’t stand the thought of leading Damon’s enemies to him after all this time, even if he did think Five-0 would be able to handle things at their end. He sat with his legs uncomfortably folded in front of him and watched film after film that he really couldn’t take in, trying not to catastrophize and succeeding about 50%, which wasn’t a bad score. In Los Angeles he spent an hour in a queue and bought himself a second ticket, to Hawaii, landing at the improbable time of 11.30 that night, Hawaiian time. He found himself a bar where he could get a burger into him, and one single beer, and he called Liv and Connor to check in. They were both planning to return to Atlanta in a few days.

“Jeremy called me,” Liv said.

Alaric jabbed a fry into his hot sauce. He was still having a lot of trouble forgiving the team for believing Damon could actually be a crooked cop. But those guys had been family, and he missed that.

“Yeah?”

“He feels terrible. I mean, he should, but he does.”

“I’ll call him in a few days. Tell him I’m not angry, would you?” He was, but that wasn’t helpful; not for Jeremy, and not for him. “I get it. They can apologize to Damon when I get him home. Enjoy the rest of your break, Liv. I’ll get Damon on FaceTime in a few days so he can express his gratitude.”

“I think you mean ’So he can hit on me and then not put out’,” she replied flatly. Alaric grinned. Yeah, that was probably more accurate. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye.

“I should go. Gotta stay awake a little longer until I’m on the plane. My legs are too long for economy, they’re killing me.”

“Next time, you should fly business. So worth it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Bye-bye, Casanova. Have fun, and try not to break him.”

 

 

By the time Alaric landed at Honolulu International Airport, he was beyond tired; his body was convinced it was morning, but he’d barely slept on the flight. Running disaster scenarios in his head. Everything that could still go wrong. Imagining what it will be like to have Damon in his arms again.

He collected his suitcase at the carousel (some of his own clothes, some of Damon’s), and found Steve waiting for him at the arrivals gate. Looking good, probably healthier than the last time; he’d gained a little weight. They embraced, hard, and Alaric murmured with his voice all choked up and reedy, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Steve replied. “You heard much of the news today?”

Alaric gripped the handle of his suitcase and followed Steve to the doors. “No. I’ve been trying not to think about too much. Still seems like there’s so much that could go wrong, you know?”

“I don’t think so, pal. People are crawling all over each other in the bid to flip first. They found the wine cellar Damon was held in in a raid on a mansion in Manhattanville, along with twenty cases of weapons. It’s going pretty good, so far, your boy did great.”

“How is he doing?”

“Getting a little bit antsy being stuck in the hotel but I think he’ll be doing a lot better when he can see you. You hungry?”

Alaric shook his head. The number of times in his life that Alaric had genuinely lost his appetite could probably be counted on two hands, and three of them had been in the last couple of months. His stomach felt like he’d been eating concrete and it was doing its best to set.

“Relax, buddy. We’re almost there.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we have two more chapters, my friends; one is mostly done and I think I will finish this week. Woohoo!


End file.
